The transport plane roared through the Arctic skies, its engines a defiant hymn against the howling wind. Below, the endless expanse of ice stretched like a pallid, fractured mirror, reflecting the pale glow of a sun that clung weakly to the horizon. Captain Wen-Liao, seated at the edge of the cabin, gazed out of the frosted window, his expression as cold and inscrutable as the tundra below.

The FAC reconnaissance team, handpicked for their resilience and skill, sat in silence, their faces lit by the soft glow of mission briefings on their devices. The air inside the cabin was heavy with anticipation, every breath a fog that mingled with the collective tension.

The holographic projector in the centre of the cabin flickered to life, casting a ghostly blue light over the team. The image of Lieutenant Colt, Wen-Liao’s trusted analyst, appeared, his voice crackling over the comms.

“Captain, we’ve confirmed the signal’s origin. It’s emanating from an abandoned research facility, Station Erebus, situated within a glacial cavern. The facility was decommissioned decades ago after a catastrophic accident, but it appears something has reactivated its systems.”

Colt’s tone dropped, his unease evident even through the static. “The resonance matches the construct from Nin-Ran-Gi. Be prepared for anomalies—both environmental and… unnatural.”

Wen-Liao nodded, his gaze unflinching. “Understood. We’ll proceed with caution. Maintain a secure uplink.”

Colt’s image flickered before vanishing, leaving the team in shadow once more.

The plane landed on an icy plateau with a jarring thud, the engines cutting out to leave a silence so profound it felt oppressive. The team disembarked into the Arctic night, the cold biting with a ferocity that seemed almost sentient. Snow swirled around them like restless spirits, the wind’s mournful howl carrying whispers too faint to discern.

Ahead loomed the cavern entrance, a jagged maw of ice that descended into the earth. The faint flicker of lights from within was a jarring contrast to the natural desolation around it.

“This is it,” Wen-Liao said, his voice steady but firm. “Move in formation. Watch each other’s backs.”

The team entered the cavern, their boots crunching on ice that gleamed like polished obsidian. The air grew colder as they descended, their breath crystallising into fleeting clouds. The walls of the cavern shimmered with an otherworldly glow, veins of bioluminescent ice weaving through the darkness like frozen lightning.

The faint hum of machinery grew louder as they approached Station Erebus, its outline emerging from the shadows. The facility was a skeletal structure of rusted metal and shattered glass, its design a relic of a bygone era. Despite its dilapidated state, the lights flickered with an unsettling rhythm, as if the facility itself were alive and waiting.

The team breached the main entrance, their weapons drawn and their senses heightened. The interior was a labyrinth of narrow corridors and frost-covered equipment. Every surface was coated in a thin layer of ice, the temperature inside somehow colder than outside.

Wen-Liao activated his comms. “Colt, we’re inside. Can you confirm the source of the signal?”

Colt’s voice crackled back. “It’s coming from the control centre. Should be at the heart of the facility.”

As they moved deeper, the team encountered remnants of the past—desks piled with yellowed papers, monitors frozen in time, and scattered personal effects of the scientists who once worked there.

“Feels like a graveyard,” one of the team muttered.

“It is,” Wen-Liao replied, his tone sharp. “Stay alert.”

The control centre was a circular room dominated by a massive console that pulsed with faint light. Screens flickered erratically, displaying streams of incomprehensible data. At the centre of the room stood a strange construct—a towering obelisk of black metal etched with symbols that seemed to writhe under the light.

As Wen-Liao approached, the hum of the obelisk grew louder, a resonance that seemed to burrow into their very bones. He raised a hand, signalling the team to halt.

“This is it,” he murmured. “The source.”

Suddenly, the resonance spiked, and the obelisk emitted a low, guttural sound that resonated through the room. The lights flickered violently, and shadows began to writhe on the walls, moving in ways that defied logic.

“Captain,” Colt’s voice came through, strained. “We’re picking up a secondary signal—something is… responding to the obelisk. You need to—”

The comms cut out, replaced by a distorted, otherworldly voice.

“The seals weaken. The shadow stirs. The Fourteenth call.”

The shadows coalesced into humanoid shapes, their forms fluid and ever-changing. Their presence exuded a malevolence so profound it felt as though the air itself recoiled.

“Open fire!” Wen-Liao commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The room erupted into violence. Bullets tore through the air, their impacts shattering monitors and ricocheting off walls. The shadows twisted and darted, their movements impossible to track.

One of the team members screamed as a shadow enveloped him, his body convulsing before collapsing to the floor. Wen-Liao raised his weapon, his shots precise, each one tearing into the creatures with the force of his resolve.

“Hold the line!” he shouted, his voice a beacon amidst the chaos.

The resonance of the obelisk grew deafening, the room shaking as cracks began to spiderweb through the walls. Wen-Liao barked orders, his team retreating toward the exit.

“Captain, the obelisk—” one of the team called out.

Wen-Liao turned, his gaze locking onto the construct. “We can’t leave it intact.”

He threw a grenade, the explosion ripping through the obelisk. The resonance cut off abruptly, the shadows dissipating like smoke.

As the team emerged from the cavern, the Arctic night seemed almost welcoming in its quiet desolation. Wen-Liao glanced back at the cavern entrance, his mind heavy with the implications of what they had encountered.

“This isn’t over,” he said softly. “It’s only just begun.”

The Federal Army Corporation (FAC) base, a monolithic structure of steel and concrete, stood like an iron sentinel amidst the frozen expanse. Its corridors echoed with the hum of machinery, a stark contrast to the haunting silence of the Arctic tundra outside. Inside the command centre, Commander Eleanor Vance waited, her sharp eyes fixed on the frosted window that overlooked the endless stretch of snow and ice.

Sergeant Davis stood beside her, his posture rigid, a testament to his years of military discipline. His weathered face bore the lines of countless battles, and his piercing gaze suggested he was a man not easily swayed by theatrics.

Across the room, Lieutenant Jared Colt worked feverishly at the console, his fingers dancing across the keys as streams of data scrolled across the holographic display. The room was suffused with a cold light, the monitors casting shifting shadows that danced like restless phantoms.

The heavy door hissed open, and Captain Wen-Liao entered, his team following closely behind. Kerin Longcutter, ever the stoic, carried a slight limp, his jaw set in a grim line. Dagdan Leesoney scanned the room with a cautious intensity, his sharp features betraying his unease. Sionola O’Leahy, her pale skin flushed from the cold, carried herself with a mix of weariness and defiance, her fiery hair a stark contrast to the sterile surroundings.

Commander Vance turned, her gaze like a blade as it settled on Wen-Liao. “Report,” she said, her voice clipped but laden with expectation.

Wen-Liao stepped forward, his expression inscrutable. “The mission was completed. The source of the anomalous signal was a decommissioned research station—Station Erebus. We located a construct emitting the resonance, an obelisk unlike anything I’ve encountered.”

Colt looked up from his console, his brow furrowed. “The resonance—it spiked just before the comms cut out. What happened inside the facility?”

Wen-Liao’s jaw tightened. “The obelisk wasn’t just a transmitter. It was... responsive. It interacted with something beyond our understanding, something malevolent.”

Sionola shivered involuntarily, her voice soft but firm. “The shadows—they moved like they were alive. They weren’t human, not even close.”

Commander Vance’s eyes narrowed. “Alive shadows? Are you suggesting these were sentient entities?”

Dagdan interjected, his voice tinged with frustration. “Sentient or not, they were hostile. One of our own didn’t make it out. Whatever this obelisk was, it wasn’t of this world.”

Colt turned to the holographic display, pulling up fragmented data. “The obelisk emitted a unique frequency—similar to what we detected at Nin-Ran-Gi, but more concentrated. It’s possible it’s part of a larger network.”

Vance folded her arms, her gaze fixed on the screen. “And the obelisk itself?”

Wen-Liao’s voice was resolute. “Destroyed. We couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the report settling over the assembled officers. Kerin broke the silence, his voice tinged with dark humour. “Destroyed or not, it felt like it was laughing at us. Like it knew we were out of our depth.”

Sionola glanced at him, her eyes wide. “It didn’t just feel like that. It was taunting us, I swear.”

Davis, who had remained silent, finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Speculation won’t help us. What matters is whether this threat is contained.”

Wen-Liao met his gaze. “It’s contained—for now. But the resonance wasn’t isolated. This isn’t over.”

Vance stepped closer to the team, her presence commanding. “You’ve brought back more questions than answers, Captain. But you’ve also brought back survival—and that’s no small feat.”

She turned to Colt. “I want every scrap of data analysed. Find out if there are more of these... constructs.”

Colt nodded. “Understood, Commander. But I’ll need time. Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s leagues ahead of anything we’ve seen before.”

As the meeting adjourned, the team lingered. Kerin leaned against a wall, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. “First ghosts in the tundra, now lectures in the warmth. I think I’ll take the latter.”

Dagdan smirked faintly. “Just admit you’re scared of shadows, mate.”

Kerin shot him a glare, but there was no real heat in it.

Sionola, quieter than usual, stared out of the window, her breath fogging the glass. “Do you think they’ll come back? The shadows, I mean.”

Wen-Liao, standing nearby, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If they do, we’ll be ready.”

As the team dispersed, Wen-Liao lingered in the command centre, his gaze fixed on the holographic display. The fragmented data swirled like a storm, mirroring the unease in his mind.

Colt approached him, his voice low. “Do you really think this is just the beginning?”

Wen-Liao’s expression was unreadable, his voice steady but heavy. “I don’t think, Colt. I know.”

As the base settled into its nightly rhythm, the Arctic winds howled outside, a mournful reminder of the unseen forces that stirred in the shadows.

The team reached the transport, its dark silhouette stark against the pale landscape. Kerin Longcutter, limping slightly, was the first to break the silence. “I don’t know about you lot, but I’m ready to leave this frozen hell.” His voice was strained, masking the tremor of unease beneath his usual bravado.

Dagdan Leesoney, ever the pragmatist, glanced at the cavern one last time. “Leaving doesn’t mean we’re free of it. Whatever that thing was, it’ll follow us—if not in body, then in mind.”

Sionola O’Leahy, her fiery hair tangled and damp with frost, shivered as she climbed aboard. “It’s not just the thing, Dagdan. It’s what it left behind. I still feel it… like it’s crawling under my skin.”

Wen-Liao’s voice cut through their murmurs as he stepped onto the transport. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it when it comes. For now, we focus on getting back.”

The hatch sealed shut with a hiss, enclosing them in the sterile hum of the cabin. The transport’s engines roared to life, carrying them away from the frozen wasteland and toward answers—or more questions.

The cabin was heavy with silence as the team settled into their seats. The rhythmic hum of the engines was a poor balm for their frayed nerves.

Kerin leaned back, his hand pressed against his injured leg. “So,” he began, his voice attempting levity but faltering. “Anyone else feel like we were the mice in some twisted experiment?”

Dagdan didn’t look up from his gear, methodically checking his weapons. “If we were mice, then that thing was the cat. And it was toying with us.”

Sionola glanced at Wen-Liao, her voice barely audible. “Captain, do you think… do you think it was alive? Or something else?”

Wen-Liao met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Alive, dead, or something in between—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it knew we were there.”

The transport hit a patch of turbulence, jarring the team from their thoughts. Wen-Liao tightened his grip on the armrest, his mind replaying the moment the obelisk had emitted its guttural resonance. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was a presence, invasive and suffocating, worming its way into his very being.

For a brief moment, he had felt… seen. Not by eyes, but by something vast and unknowable, a consciousness that dwarfed their own like a mountain looming over a single flame.

He closed his eyes, the memory of the shadows clawing at the edges of his mind. They had moved with purpose, fluid yet deliberate, as if executing a design he could barely comprehend.

As the transport descended toward the Federal Army Corporation, the base’s lights gleamed faintly in the distance, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold void outside. The team disembarked in silence, their exhaustion palpable.

Commander Eleanor Vance awaited them, her figure silhouetted against the glow of the base’s entrance. Beside her stood Sergeant Davis, his stern expression unreadable.

Wen-Liao saluted, his movements precise despite his weariness. “Mission complete, Commander.”

Vance’s sharp gaze swept over the team, noting their worn expressions and the tension that lingered like a spectre. “Complete,” she echoed, her tone neutral. “But not resolved.”

She turned, gesturing for them to follow. “Debrief immediately. I want every detail.”

Inside the debriefing chamber, the team recounted their ordeal. The obelisk. The resonance. The shadows. Each word seemed to thicken the air, the room heavy with the gravity of their encounter.

Colt, monitoring the data, frowned as streams of corrupted code flashed across his screen. “The resonance wasn’t just a signal,” he said, his voice hesitant. “It was… a gateway. Or a key.”

Vance’s expression darkened. “A key to what?”

Colt hesitated before replying, “To whatever lies on the other side.”

Wen-Liao leaned forward, his voice steady but grave. “And whatever it is, it’s reaching out. It knows we’re here.”

The debriefing ended, but the unease lingered. As the team dispersed, Wen-Liao found himself alone in the observation deck, gazing out at the Arctic expanse. The stars above seemed less like distant suns and more like watchful eyes, their light cold and indifferent.

“This isn’t over,” he murmured again, his breath fogging the glass. “The shadows are just the beginning.”

Behind him, the faint echo of footsteps signalled someone approaching. He didn’t turn.

“Captain,” Sionola’s voice was soft. “Do you really believe they’ll come back?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression sombre. “I don’t just believe it, Sionola. I know it.”

The Syndicate Communist Party (SCP) headquarters stood like a fortress of iron and glass amidst the chaotic sprawl of its territory. Its monolithic design, cold and unyielding, mirrored the ideology it harboured within—absolute control at any cost.

In his private chamber, Gavriel Elazar, the enigmatic head of the SCP, sat in his high-backed chair. The room was a study in shadow, illuminated only by the dim glow of an ornate lamp on his desk. The light threw sharp angles across his face, accentuating the cunning glint in his eyes and the cruel curve of his lips.

Across from him stood Elan Mordecha, the captain of the SCP’s secret police force. Mordecha’s posture was ramrod straight, his black uniform pristine, every inch of him a weapon sharpened to perfection.

Gavriel leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he spoke, his voice low but imbued with an unmistakable authority.

“Elan,” he began, his tone deliberate, “I am assigning you a delicate task. A shipment from Sector Theta-7 must be secured—its contents are vital to our operations. This is not to be intercepted, not even by the SSCBF. Do you understand?”

Mordecha nodded, his expression unreadable. “Completely, sir. The SSCBF will remain oblivious.”

“Good.” Gavriel’s eyes narrowed, his gaze like a dagger. “Failure is not an option.”

Mordecha hesitated for a moment before continuing, his voice measured. “Sir, there is… another matter. Captain Wen-Liao of the FAC has uncovered an encrypted message. It references the Fourteenth Families.”

The air seemed to grow colder. Gavriel’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening into a steeple before he slammed them onto the desk. “What?”

Mordecha remained calm, though his eyes flickered with the weight of his words. “The message was retrieved from a resonance site in the Arctic. It’s unclear how much they’ve deciphered, but their activity suggests they’ve gleaned enough to be a threat.”

Gavriel’s initial fury gave way to a calculated calm, his mind spinning webs of strategy. He stood, pacing the room like a predator in a cage, the sound of his boots sharp against the polished floor.

“They must be stopped,” he said finally, his voice cold as Arctic frost. “The FAC cannot be allowed to connect the dots. Destroy the message and eliminate Wen-Liao if necessary.”

Mordecha inclined his head. “Sir, there is… another complication. Captain Wen-Liao is the brother of Wen-Li.”

At this, Gavriel halted. A sinister smile spread across his face, the kind that spoke of plans within plans. He turned back to Mordecha, his eyes gleaming with malevolent delight.

“Ah,” he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. “So the esteemed Captain Wen-Liao may prove useful after all. Use him to weaken Wen-Li. Exploit the bond they share—it will be their undoing.”

Mordecha shifted slightly, his tone steady. “We are also pursuing information on Agent-90 and his team, particularly Jun. Our operatives are working tirelessly to locate and neutralise them.”

Gavriel’s expression hardened. “Agent-90... the ghost who thinks he can elude me.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the shadows in the corner of the room. “Increase the pressure. I want him found, and I want him broken. His comrades, too—they will serve as bait if needed.”

Gavriel returned to his chair, sinking into it like a king on his throne. “Wen-Liao, Wen-Li, Agent-90... all pieces on the board,” he said, his voice a whisper. “And all of them will fall when the time is right.”

Mordecha saluted crisply. “I will see to it, sir.”

As the captain turned to leave, Gavriel’s voice stopped him. “Elan.”

Mordecha paused, glancing back.

“Remember,” Gavriel said, his tone soft but deadly, “failure is not an option. The Fourteenth Families will rise, and nothing—not the FAC, not the SSCBF, and certainly not these renegades—will stand in our way.”

As the door clicked shut, Gavriel leaned back, his smile returning. The dim light played across his face, casting shadows that seemed to whisper of the machinations spinning in his mind.

Outside, the city buzzed with activity, a chaotic symphony of control and rebellion. But within the walls of the SCP’s stronghold, the seeds of chaos were being sown, their roots stretching toward the unsuspecting players in Gavriel’s game.

At the SCP Secret Police Operatives Headquarters, located in the heart of Lóngchāng, reflects the Syndicate Communist Party's oppressive authority, power, and obsession with control. Its design is a grim, imposing structure that exudes dominance and paranoia, symbolizing the sinister force behind the dystopian world of Nin-Ran-Gi.

The HQ is a skyscraper fortress, rising over 700 meters into the smog-filled sky, with a brutalist architectural style. Its façade is constructed from black obsidian-like alloy, reinforced with energy shields that shimmer faintly when struck by sunlight

The Syndicate's crimson star-and-chain insignia is engraved into the building's surface, glowing ominously at night, visible from miles away. Tower-mounted holograms project propaganda messages and surveillance warnings.

The base is surrounded by electrified barricades, watchtowers, and auto-turrets, ensuring no unauthorized access. A moat-like energy field encircles the structure, shimmering with a lethal current.

Beneath the HQ lies a vast underground complex, housing transport tunnels, detention centers, and secret laboratories. Helipads and drone docking bays are camouflaged on the upper levels for rapid deployment of operatives.

As for the interior design a cavernous space with high ceilings and walls lined with black-marble panels, embedded with red LED strips. A massive holographic statue of the Syndicate’s founder dominates the hall, rotating slowly, as guards in black combat armor patrol.

The core of the HQ is the NEXUS Control Room, an enormous circular chamber filled with monitors and holographic displays. Operatives analyze feeds from surveillance drones, biometric trackers, and satellite systems, ensuring no dissidence escapes detection.

A cold, sterile area with rows of cells lined with transparent energy barriers.

Interrogation chambers are equipped with neuro-probing devices, psychotropic gas dispensers, and holographic torture systems designed to break the strongest wills.

A hexagonal chamber featuring a central holographic map table displaying the entire world of Nin-Ran-Gi in real-time. Syndicate officers strategise operations against rebellion groups like the Sinners or Echo Rebeliions

The sprawling command centre of the Syndicate Communist Party (SCP) buzzed with a quiet intensity, a symphony of keystrokes, murmured orders, and the hum of high-tech machinery. The room, bathed in the cold glow of holographic displays, resembled the mind of a master tactician—fragmented yet meticulously interconnected.

Elan Mordecha, captain of the SCP secret police force, strode through the labyrinth of workstations with an air of restrained authority. His sharp gaze swept over his operatives, each engrossed in their respective tasks, their movements as precise as clockwork.

At one end of the room, Ananya Kapoor, the data encryption specialist, sat before a multi-screen console, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Streams of encrypted data cascaded down her monitors like digital waterfalls. Nearby, Raghav Sethi, a seasoned field agent, leaned over a holographic map, marking locations with a stylus. His expression was one of cold calculation.

On another side, Haruka Asano, the SCP’s master assassin, polished a blade with deliberate care, her dark eyes glinting like obsidian under the fluorescent lights. Daichi Kazuma, the surveillance expert, was hunched over a bank of monitors, adjusting feeds from urban networks that flickered with images of bustling streets and shadowed alleys.

Further in the room, Liang Wei, the cyber-intelligence hacker, worked on a digital fortress, his hands gliding over a holographic interface. Beside him, Mei Fong, the strategist, reviewed a stack of dossiers, her lips pursed in concentration as she plotted espionage campaigns.

Elan stopped at the central command table, where Shira Malachai, a senior operative, glanced up from her work. Her piercing gaze met his, a hint of curiosity flickering across her face.

“Elan,” Shira said, her tone measured, “what brings you here? What orders has the head given this time?”

Elan placed a folder on the table, his voice steady but edged with authority. “Gavriel has tasked us with two priorities. First, securing the shipment from Sector Theta-7 without SSCBF and FAC interference. Second...” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, “...the elimination of Captain Wen-Liao and the destruction of the encrypted message he retrieved in the Arctic.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. Raghav Sethi leaned back against the table, his lips curling into a sneer. “Wen-Liao? The brother of Chief Wen-Li? That’ll be... interesting.”

Elan ignored the comment, continuing with precision. “The encrypted message contains references to the Fourteenth Families. It cannot fall into the hands of the FAC—or anyone else. Our operatives will ensure this loose end is tied.”

Raghav crossed his arms, his tone dripping with derision. “And what of Agent-90? Last I checked, he’d already put an end to some of our finest—Altan Sukh, Siegfried Bauer, Klara Diefenbach, Isabela Cruz, and Jin Ah-Ri. He’s a ghost, Elan, and he’s hunting us down one by one.”

The room stilled. Operatives exchanged glances, their expressions darkening. Haruka Asano tightened her grip on her blade, and Mei Fong’s hand curled into a fist. A simmering hatred burned beneath the surface of their professionalism.

Elan’s eyes narrowed. “Agent-90 is a threat. But he’s not invincible. Focus on your assignments and let me worry about the ghost.”

The room fell silent as the door slid open, and Chief Ilse Richter entered. Her presence was commanding, her platinum hair pulled into a severe bun that only amplified the sharp angles of her face. Her pale, calculating eyes swept over the gathered operatives before settling on Elan.

“Captain Mordecha,” she said, her voice as cold as the Arctic winds. “I require you in my office. Now.”

Elan straightened, his expression unreadable but his body language tense. “Of course, Chief Richter.”

She turned on her heel, her movements precise and unyielding.

As Elan followed her out, the room erupted into quiet murmurs.

“Richter doesn’t call you unless there’s blood to spill,” Raghav muttered, leaning toward Haruka.

“Perhaps she’ll put him on the chopping block if he fails,” Haruka replied, her tone dripping with sardonic amusement.

Shira shot them both a warning glance. “Enough. Focus on the mission.”

Walking behind Ilse Richter, Elan’s mind raced. He knew the stakes were rising—Wen-Liao, Agent-90, and now the enigmatic Fourteenth Families. Each move they made felt like playing chess against a shadow, where every piece on the board threatened to turn against them.

But Elan Mordecha was no pawn. He was a predator, and the hunt was only beginning.

The SSCBF headquarters was alive with the low hum of work—a symphony of keyboards clicking, files rustling, and muffled conversations that drifted through the air like wayward breezes. At her desk, Lan Qian worked intently, her eyes fixed on the screen before her. The glow of her desktop reflected off her glasses, her fingers moving swiftly as she analysed encrypted data streams.

Her concentration was interrupted when Tsutsuji, one of her colleagues, approached, clutching a stack of files that seemed ready to topple at any moment.

“Lan Qian,” Tsutsuji began, her voice tinged with exasperation, “can you help me? These files are from Operations, and I can’t make sense of the task they’ve assigned me. It’s like trying to decode a foreign language without a guide!”

Lan Qian glanced up, her expression softening into a slight smile. “Of course. Let me see.”

She took the files from Tsutsuji, her sharp eyes scanning the contents. “Ah, these are cross-references for recent surveillance activities. You’ll need to match the flagged timestamps to the corresponding entries in the incident logs. Here—” she pointed at a column, her tone calm and instructional, “—start here and work your way down. It’s tedious, but it’s straightforward once you get the hang of it.”

Tsutsuji’s face lit up with relief. “You make it sound so simple, Lan. Thank you!”

Lan Qian chuckled lightly. “No trouble. If you get stuck, just call me.”

Across the office, Sakim, who hadn’t accompanied the team to Shuǐzhì Chǔ, leaned casually against a desk, speaking to Demitin. His voice carried just enough to draw attention from nearby colleagues.

“So,” Sakim began, smirking, “I hear Chief Wen-Li treated you all to a feast at the seafood restaurant Shuǐzhì Chǔ. What’s the story there?”

Demitin, always one for theatrical responses, slapped her own face dramatically, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Sakim! Not only did Chief dance, but she sang too! Right in front of everyone!”

Lan Qian, seated nearby, froze mid-typing, her face a mixture of incredulity and restrained amusement. Labibah, who was passing by with a stack of reports, nearly dropped them as she turned, her eyes wide. Tao-Ren, ever composed, raised a single eyebrow but said nothing, the corner of her mouth twitching as if suppressing a laugh.

Further away, Yuri, Karin, Tsutsuji, Yuzuriha, Akane, and Azami—who hadn’t been part of the dinner—leaned in with rapt attention, their curiosity palpable.

“You’re joking,” Yuri said, her tone half incredulous, half amused.

Demitin placed a hand on her heart, feigning sincerity. “Would I lie about something so monumental?”

Before the conversation could spiral further, Nightingale, seated nearby, shot up from her chair. In one swift motion, she crossed the room and clamped a gloved hand over Demitin’s mouth.

“She’s talking nonsense,” Nightingale said, laughing as she tried to wave off the growing murmurs. “Nothing happened! Absolutely nothing! It was all very professional.”

Demitin, her voice muffled behind Nightingale’s hand, let out a dramatic “mmph!” before Nightingale shot her a warning glare.

“You were going to slap yourself again, weren’t you?” Nightingale said, narrowing her eyes.

Demitin pulled Nightingale’s hand away and grinned cheekily. “I might have been.”

Nightingale shook her head and sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”

The sudden sound of Chief Wen-Li’s footsteps approaching the office counter was like a thunderclap. Conversations ceased instantly, files were shuffled hastily, and everyone returned to their desks, their movements overly precise.

Wen-Li stopped in the centre of the room, her sharp eyes surveying the now-innocently bustling office. “Good morning,” she said, her tone perfectly neutral.

The room chorused a disjointed “Good morning, Chief,” though the air was thick with suppressed tension.

Wen-Li’s gaze lingered for a moment before she raised an eyebrow. “Is there something I should know?”

Lan Qian, her hands poised over her keyboard, dared not look up. Beside her, Labibah coughed awkwardly. Demitin, true to form, slapped her own cheek lightly and muttered under her breath, “Nothing to see here, Chief.”

Wen-Li’s eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced at Nightingale, whose posture was a bit too stiff to be convincing. “Nightingale, you seem unusual... vigilant today. Care to explain why?”

Nightingale forced a laugh, scratching the back of her head. “Just trying to set a good example, Chief.”

Wen-Li’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile. “I see. Carry on, then.”

As she walked toward her office, the entire room exhaled in unison.

The moment Wen-Li’s door closed, Demitin turned to Nightingale, whispering loudly, “She definitely knows. You’re terrible at lying, by the way.”

Nightingale groaned, slumping into her chair. “If she does, I’m blaming you.”

Lan Qian, despite herself, let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head as she returned to her work. The office slowly resumed its rhythm, but the memory of the Chief’s presence lingered like the distant rumble of thunder after a storm.

The SCP Secret Police headquarters was a fortress of shadows and silence, its corridors winding like a labyrinth designed to disorient even the boldest intruder. At its heart lay Chief Ilse Richter’s office, a room as austere as its occupant. The walls were a cold, gunmetal grey, adorned with nothing but the faint gleam of integrated monitors and a single, stark portrait of the Syndicate’s founders.

Ilse Richter sat behind a desk of polished black stone, her posture immaculate, her sharp eyes fixed on the holographic report hovering before her. The cold light from the display reflected off her platinum hair, which was pulled into a severe bun that only accentuated the sharp precision of her features.

When the door slid open, Elan Mordecha entered, his movements measured and deliberate. He stopped a precise distance from her desk and saluted crisply, his expression as unreadable as hers.

Richter didn’t look up immediately, instead finishing her review of the report. When she finally spoke, her voice was as precise and cutting as a scalpel.

“Captain Mordecha,” she said, her pale eyes meeting his. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”

Elan nodded, his tone steady. “As instructed, Chief. I’ve assigned operatives to secure the shipment from Sector Theta-7 and am coordinating efforts to eliminate Captain Wen-Liao and the encrypted message.”

Richter leaned back slightly, her steely gaze never wavering. “Efforts that I trust will not end in failure. Unlike certain… incidents involving Agent-90.”

The air between them seemed to thicken, the unspoken tension crackling like static electricity. Elan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained calm. “Agent-90 is a unique adversary. His methods are—”

“Unique?” Richter interrupted, her tone icy. “I would call them devastatingly effective. Altan Sukh. Siegfried Bauer. Klara Diefenbach. All reduced to nothing more than footnotes in the annals of our failures. Need I continue, Captain?”

Elan’s fists clenched behind his back, but his face betrayed nothing. “No, Chief.”

Richter’s lips curved into a faint, humourless smile. “Good. Then you’ll understand why I expect results this time. The Syndicate does not suffer mediocrity.”

Richter gestured to a monitor on the side of her desk, where dossiers of key SCP operatives flickered into view. “I want you to deploy Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong to handle the encrypted message. Their skill sets are uniquely suited to ensuring success.”

Elan inclined his head. “And the FAC team?”

Richter’s gaze darkened. “Wen-Liao is a soldier, bound by principles. Exploit that. Use their ideals to trap them. And if his ties to his sister can be leveraged, do so without hesitation.”

Richter paused, her expression softening into something almost sardonic. “And while we’re on the subject of failures, Captain, do tell me how your team is coping with Raghav Sethi’s colourful commentary.”

Elan’s stoic mask cracked just enough to show a flicker of exasperation. “Raghav is... passionate, Chief. But his dedication to the mission is unquestionable.”

Richter’s smile grew sharper, like a blade honed to perfection. “Passionate is a polite word for insubordinate. I expect you to ensure his enthusiasm doesn’t compromise our objectives. I would hate to find him... replaceable.”

Richter stood, her imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. “One more thing, Captain. The Fourteenth Families. How much does the FAC know?”

Elan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They’ve identified the term and linked it to the resonance sites. Beyond that, their understanding is fragmented.”

Richter nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Fragmented knowledge is dangerous. It breeds curiosity. Curiosity, in turn, breeds action. Ensure that their understanding remains fragmented, or remove the pieces entirely.”

As Elan exited the office, the operatives in the central command room glanced up. Raghav Sethi, leaning back in his chair, smirked. “So, did she chew you out for all the times Agent-90 kicked our arses, or just the latest one?”

Elan shot him a withering glare. “Do you ever stop talking, Sethi, or is that your special talent?”

Raghav’s grin widened. “Oh, I’m just warming up, Captain. Wait till I start talking about how we’re definitely not going to screw this one up.”

The tension broke slightly as Daichi Kazuma snorted from his workstation. “Raghav, if you keep running your mouth, even Agent-90 won’t be able to save you from Chief Richter.”

The room chuckled softly, the operatives exchanging weary but knowing looks.

Elan, despite himself, allowed a faint smirk to touch his lips. “Keep laughing,” he said, his voice dry. “Because once this mission starts, none of you will have the energy to even breathe wrong.”

Later, as Elan stood in the observation deck overlooking the sprawling cityscape of the SCP’s territory, his thoughts were heavier than the storm-laden clouds above. Richter’s words echoed in his mind, her expectations a weight pressing on his shoulders.

But Elan Mordecha was no stranger to pressure. He thrived in it, forged by the crucible of the Syndicate’s relentless demands.

Below, the city lights flickered like a thousand tiny fires, each one a symbol of the chaos he controlled—or tried to. “Wen-Liao, Agent-90,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible above the hum of the building. “You think you’re hunters. Let’s see how you fare when the shadows hunt you back.”

The SSCBF headquarters hummed with a quiet, efficient intensity. The corridors were a labyrinth of purpose, each turn leading to another pocket of meticulous order. In her office, Chief Wen-Li sat at her polished desk, the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the sprawling metropolis outside was obscured by a faint drizzle, the raindrops clinging to the glass like tiny messengers of fleeting tranquillity.

Her desk was an organised chaos of reports, digital tablets, and a steaming cup of jasmine tea. Wen-Li’s long fingers danced over her keyboard, her expression sharp and focused, as she reviewed the latest field intelligence.

The soft chime of her intercom broke the silence. Lan Qian’s voice, polite but tinged with hesitation, came through.

“Chief Wen-Li, may I come in? There’s something urgent I need to discuss.”

Wen-Li leaned back in her chair, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Of course, Lan Qian. You never interrupt unless it’s important.”

The door slid open, and Lan Qian entered, clutching a file that looked heavier than it had any right to be. Her sharp features were softened by a slight furrow in her brow, a look that Wen-Li had come to associate with her assistant’s mix of competence and quiet anxiety.

“Lan Qian,” Wen-Li said, gesturing to a seat, “you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Sit, before you collapse under it.”

Lan Qian sat, placing the file on the desk with the reverence of someone handling volatile explosives. “This just came in from the Field Operations Unit. It’s... unusual.”

Wen-Li opened the file, her sharp eyes scanning the contents. Her expression darkened slightly, like clouds gathering before a storm.

“Unusual is putting it mildly,” she murmured. “This data suggests movement near the Obsidian Peaks, a known SCP zone. But the patterns... they’re erratic. Almost as if they’re baiting us.”

As they delved deeper into the report, the muffled sound of laughter filtered in from the open-plan office outside. Wen-Li glanced up, her brows knitting together.

“Lan Qian,” she said, her tone carrying a touch of bemusement, “is it just me, or has the office been unusually lively this morning?”

Lan Qian hesitated, glancing nervously toward the door. “Ah, well, Chief... there was some talk about... the restaurant last night.”

Wen-Li’s sharp gaze fixed on her. “Talk?”

Lan Qian swallowed visibly, her professional demeanour faltering. “About... how you, um... entertained everyone.”

In the main office, Sakim was recounting his own interpretation of events to a small, captive audience that included Demitin, Labibah, and Tao-Ren.

“So, I heard Chief danced on a table,” Sakim said, his grin widening with each word. “And that’s when the waiter dropped a whole platter of shrimp in Jun’s lap!”

Demitin rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Sakim, you’re an idiot. Chief wasn’t on the table—she was just... really into the music.”

“Right, because dancing in the middle of a seafood restaurant isn’t memorable enough,” Sakim shot back, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Labibah covered her face with a folder, trying to hide her laughter. Tao-Ren, ever the composed one, simply shook her head.

Before the rumours could spiral further, Nightingale strode into the centre of the group, her tactical boots clicking against the floor. Her presence was like a lightning rod, drawing all eyes.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she said, crossing her arms. “Chief didn’t dance on any tables, and if you keep saying she did, I’ll personally reassign you to filing duty for the next month.”

Sakim raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. No table dancing. But what about the singing?”

Nightingale’s glare could have frozen magma. “There was no singing either. And if you have any more questions, why don’t you ask the Chief directly?”

As if summoned, the door to Wen-Li’s office opened, and she stepped out, her expression calm but her sharp eyes scanning the room with surgical precision. The entire office fell silent, save for the faint hum of equipment.

“So,” she said, her tone neutral but carrying an undercurrent of authority. “I trust everyone is focused on their work?”

A chorus of hurried affirmations followed, with officers returning to their desks like school children caught passing notes.

Wen-Li’s gaze landed on Sakim, whose grin had all but vanished. “Sakim,” she said, her voice smooth, “you seem particularly amused this morning. Care to share the joke?”

Sakim’s face flushed. “Ah, no joke, Chief. Just... some light-hearted banter.”

Wen-Li raised an eyebrow but let it pass. “Good. Then I’m sure you won’t mind staying late tonight to review last week’s surveillance logs.”

“Yes, Chief,” Sakim mumbled, his shoulders slumping.

As Wen-Li returned to her office, she caught Lan Qian’s eye and gave her a knowing smile. “See? I told you the office was lively today.”

Lan Qian chuckled softly, her earlier nervousness fading. “You handled it well, Chief.”

Wen-Li sighed, sitting back down at her desk. “Lan Qian, when you’ve been in command long enough, you learn to pick your battles. Let the rumours flow—it keeps morale high. Just make sure they don’t put me on the menu.”

The city of Khüitenhold(Хүйтэнхолд) – “Frozen Fortress” stood resplendent, its glacial architecture shimmering under the ceaseless rain. Droplets fell like liquid diamonds, cascading over the luminous, ice-carved towers that reached skyward like frozen cathedrals. The rain kissed the heated pathways, releasing ghostly wisps of steam that curled into the air like the last breath of a vanquished spirit.

In the heart of this surreal cityscape, the Sinner moved like phantoms, their dark silhouettes blending seamlessly with the mist-laden streets.

Garofano Chounmeing, cloaked in a sleek obsidian coat that shimmered faintly in the rain, stood at the edge of a suspended walkway overlooking The Frost Pavilion. Her almond-shaped eyes reflected the kaleidoscope of colours refracted by the crystalline roof below. The voice of Lady Sin echoed in her mind, sharp and commanding as a blade cutting through silk.

“Agent-90 is here, somewhere in Khüitenhold. He is no ordinary adversary, and you, my Sinner, must leave no trace of his existence. Hunt him. Break him. Bring me his failure.”

Garofano tightened her grip on the hilt of her slender rapier, its blade forged from a hybrid of carbon steel and reinforced diamond. “He won’t elude us,” she muttered to herself, her voice as cold as the rain trickling down her hood.

Ashera, her black hair slick with rain, adjusted the veil covering the lower half of her face. Her Eclipsed Veil ability allowed her to move unseen, a shadow among shadows, but even she couldn’t shake the unease lingering in the air.

She stepped up beside Garofano, her voice a whisper, softer than the rain. “Lady Sin underestimates him. This isn’t a simple hunt—it’s a battle of minds. He won’t come to us. We must draw him out.”

Garofano’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Then let him think he’s safe. Shadows always grow where light dares to shine.”

From the edge of an icy platform overlooking the Frost Nomad Tournament, Syntara watched the agility competitors with disinterest. Her Echoing Nightmare ability crackled faintly within her, ready to plunge her enemies into psychological torment.

“Agent-90 thrives on control,” she murmured, her voice melodic yet unsettling. “But even the strongest minds fracture when faced with their own fears.”

She glanced at Blaze, who stood beside her, his fiery red hair a stark contrast against the silvery rain. “What’s your strategy, Blaze? Burn down the entire city?”

Blaze grinned, his teeth flashing like a predator’s. “Only if it gets results.” His Inferno Surge ability crackled faintly, the heat radiating from his fingertips creating tiny pockets of steam that danced in the air.

Xira, trailing behind the group, moved with the eerie grace of a serpent. Her gloved hands brushed the icy walls as she passed, leaving faint streaks of her toxin-laden energy.

“This city is already a maze,” she said, her voice dripping with derision. “If Agent-90 doesn’t kill himself running from us, the environment surely will. The glaciers beyond these walls are no sanctuary—they’re a death sentence.”

Her green eyes glinted as she adjusted the small vial of her toxin hanging from her belt. “All I need is one chance. One touch.”

As the SINNERS continued their hunt, the rain intensified, the rhythmic drumming against the icy surfaces amplifying the surreal beauty of Khüitenhold. Citizens moved briskly, their reflective coats glowing faintly under the lanterns, unaware of the predators stalking their city.

The SINNERS spread out, each moving with purpose.

* Garofano made her way toward the crystalline corridors of the Frost Pavilion, her senses sharp as she scanned for any trace of Agent-90.

* Ashera vanished into the misty alleys, her presence reduced to nothing more than a fleeting shadow.

* Syntara lingered near the observation decks of the tournament, her piercing gaze studying the crowd for anomalies.

* Blaze prowled the lower streets, his fiery aura casting brief flickers of light in the rain-soaked darkness.

* Xira, ever patient, traced the outskirts of the city, her fingers leaving faint trails of toxin on strategic surfaces.

But Agent-90 was no ordinary prey. Somewhere in the labyrinthine city, he moved with calculated precision, his blue eyes cold and unyielding behind his glasses. The rain that drenched his black attire only seemed to accentuate the sharpness of his movements, each step deliberate, each glance a calculated assessment of his surroundings.

As the hours passed, frustration began to seep into the group.

Blaze growled, slamming his fist into a frozen railing, the heat of his anger causing a hiss of steam. “This is pointless! We’re chasing a ghost.”

Syntara arched a brow, her voice laced with sardonic amusement. “Perhaps if you stopped announcing your presence with every step, the ghost might not hear us coming.”

Blaze shot her a glare but said nothing, the tension between them crackling like static electricity.

Garofano intervened, her tone sharp. “Enough. Agent-90 is no fool, but neither are we. Focus on the task. Let the rain wash away your tempers.”

Ashera, emerging from the mist, rejoined the group, her expression unusually tense. “I found something—a trail leading toward the geothermal vents.”

Garofano’s eyes narrowed. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”

Syntara smiled faintly, her voice dripping with anticipation. “Let’s see how well he hides when the shadows close in.”

The Sinner moved as one, their dark forms blending into the ethereal beauty of Khüitenhold. The rain continued to fall, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to the growing tension.

Agent-90 remained elusive, a phantom in the glacial city. But the Sinner were relentless, their determination as unyielding as the ice beneath their feet.

In the distance, the faint sound of an avalanche echoed through the mist, a reminder of the unforgiving world surrounding them—a world where only the strongest survived.

The Black Castle, with its foreboding spires and obsidian walls, stood like a sentinel of dread amidst the mist-shrouded landscape. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and damp stone, the corridors illuminated only by flickering sconces that cast shadows like the silhouettes of restless spirits.

In a dimly lit chamber lined with tapestries depicting battles long past, Zoyah paced, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her fiery temper simmered just beneath the surface, her frustration evident in the sharp clack of her boots against the cold marble floor.

oyah’s mind churned like a storm-tossed sea as the words reached her ears: Garofano Chounmeing, Ashera, Syntara, Blaze, and Xira had been sent to hunt Agent-90. Her heart sank, and a frustrated groan escaped her lips.

She knew of Agent-90—not merely as a shadow whispered about in fear, but as the man who had turned Noctum Hollow into a desolate chasm. A single adversary who had, with ruthless efficiency, turned one of the most fortified sites into an abyss.

“They’re fools,” she muttered, her voice a blend of disbelief and anger. “He’ll reduce them to ashes before they even realise what hit them.”

Her indignation surged, compelling her to act. Turning sharply on her heel, Zoyah stormed out of the chamber, her destination clear: Lady Sin’s sanctum.

Lady Sin’s office was a grand yet austere space, its black walls adorned with crimson roses blooming in perpetual shadow. The Lady herself, seated behind a desk carved from volcanic glass, exuded an air of authority so absolute it bordered on regal.

When Zoyah entered, the heavy doors creaking as if in protest, Lady Sin didn’t look up. Instead, she continued writing, her quill scratching against parchment with deliberate precision.

“Lady Sin,” Zoyah began, her voice edged with defiance.

The Lady finally glanced up, her dark eyes gleaming like shards of onyx. “Zoyah. To what do I owe this… impassioned entrance?”

Zoyah stepped closer, her hands clenched into fists. “You sent them. You sent Garofano and the others after him. Agent-90. Do you realise what you’ve done?”

Lady Sin leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Of course, I do. I sent the best. What concerns you, Zoyah?”

Zoyah’s frustration boiled over. “Concern? Concern doesn’t even begin to cover it! That man isn’t human. He’s a force of destruction. Do you remember what he did to Noctum Hollow? One man—one—turned it into a crater that even time itself seems unwilling to reclaim.”

Lady Sin’s lips curled into a faint smile, a gesture that only infuriated Zoyah further. “And yet,” she said, her voice calm as a still lake, “he is still just a man. A man who bleeds, a man who falls, like all others. My SINNERS will succeed. They always do.”

Zoyah’s eyes blazed, her voice rising. “You’re blind, Lady Sin. You’re playing a game of chess with a storm, and you’ve sent pawns to fight the lightning.”

Lady Sin stood, her imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. “Zoyah,” she said, her voice now cold and unyielding, “do not presume to lecture me on strategy. I do not act on impulse. This is calculated. Controlled. And necessary.”

Zoyah’s jaw tightened, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Necessary? When he reduces them to nothing but memories, will you still call it necessary?”

Lady Sin’s eyes softened, though her expression remained unreadable. “If that is the price, so be it. Now, unless you wish to join them, I suggest you leave.”

Zoyah stormed out of the office, the doors slamming shut behind her with a resounding echo. Her chest heaved as she strode down the corridor, her anger a fire threatening to consume her.

“Zoyah?”

The voice was soft yet firm. Shalom Morozov, her maroon hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, stepped into view. Her presence was calm, a stark contrast to Zoyah’s stormy disposition.

“What’s wrong?” Shalom asked, her pale blue eyes searching Zoyah’s face.

Zoyah hesitated, the anger still boiling within her. “Nothing,” she snapped, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her.

Shalom tilted her head, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “You’re a terrible liar, Zoyah. Tell me.”

Zoyah sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Lady Sin sent Garofano and the others after Agent-90.”

Shalom’s brows furrowed, her expression shifting to one of concern. “Agent-90? The man who...”

“Yes,” Zoyah interrupted, her tone sharp. “The one who turned Noctum Hollow into a pit of despair.”

Shalom crossed her arms, leaning slightly against the wall. “That doesn’t sound... wise,” she said carefully.

“Wise?” Zoyah scoffed. “It’s insanity. She’s sending them to their deaths, and she doesn’t even care. She thinks she can control this, that he’s just another target. But he’s not.”

Shalom nodded slowly, her maroon hair catching the faint glow of the corridor’s sconces. “And you told her this?”

“I did,” Zoyah admitted, her voice quieter now. “She didn’t listen.”

Shalom placed a reassuring hand on Zoyah’s shoulder. “Then it’s not your burden to carry. You warned her. If she chooses not to listen, that’s on her.”

Zoyah sighed, her anger dimming into frustration. “It doesn’t make it any easier, though. Garofano... she’s better than this. She deserves better than this.”

As the two women stood in silence, the rain outside began to intensify, its rhythmic drumming a somber backdrop to their thoughts.

“Do you think they’ll survive?” Shalom asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zoyah’s gaze drifted to the distant window, where droplets raced each other down the glass. “I hope so,” she said softly. “But hope isn’t much of a shield.”

The SCP tactical operations centre was a den of precision and purpose, its sterile atmosphere punctuated by the soft hum of machinery and the glow of holographic displays. Elan Mordecha, with his crisp uniform and measured stride, stood at the centre of the room like a conductor readying an orchestra. His gaze swept over the gathered operatives, his sharp features etched with an intensity that seemed to ripple through the air.

On either side stood Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong, their demeanours as diverse as their skills yet unified by the singular focus of their mission. Each carried the weight of their reputation—a trio of precision instruments sharpened for chaos.

Elan gestured toward the central holographic display, which showed an intricately layered map of the Obsidian Peaks, overlaid with glowing markers that represented SCP interests and FAC surveillance grids.

“Our target,” he began, his voice as precise as a scalpel, “is the encrypted message retrieved by Captain Wen-Liao of the FAC. This message contains references to the Fourteenth Families—information that could compromise our operations. Your mission is to intercept the message, neutralise any threats, and ensure nothing reaches the SSCBF or other parties. Failure is not an option.”

His cold gaze flicked between the three operatives. “Haruka, you’ll handle field operations. Mei, you’ll coordinate extraction logistics. Liang, your expertise in cyber-infiltration will ensure we gain access to the message without leaving a trace.”

Haruka Asano, the master assassin, stood with his arms crossed, his expression impassive but his sharp eyes glinting with latent danger. “Understood,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like a blade dragged over stone. “What kind of resistance are we expecting?”

“Minimal, if you’re efficient,” Elan replied, his tone devoid of humour.

Liang Wei, the cyber-intelligence hacker, adjusted her glasses, her expression thoughtful. “And if the FAC has fortified their systems? I assume we’re not underestimating Wen-Liao.”

Elan’s mouth curved into a faint smirk. “Of course not. That’s why you’re here, Liang. Consider their fortifications an opportunity to prove why you’re the best.”

Mei Fong, the strategist, tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a confident smile. “And the extraction point? I assume we’re working with your usual... overabundance of contingencies?”

Elan’s gaze hardened. “Every contingency. This mission requires absolute precision. You’ll be briefed on the specifics en route.”

As the team dispersed to prepare, Haruka Asano remained behind for a moment, his gloved fingers tracing the hilt of the short blade strapped to his side. The blade was an extension of himself, its cold steel reflecting the precision and efficiency he valued above all else.

Haruka didn’t speak much, but his thoughts churned like a storm beneath his calm exterior. He had killed for the Syndicate more times than he could count, each strike as deliberate as the last. Yet the mention of the Fourteenth Families lingered in his mind, an ominous shadow that even he couldn’t ignore.

In the operations lab, Liang Wei worked in silence, her fingers dancing over a holographic keyboard as she reviewed the FAC’s known encryption protocols. The glow of the monitors cast her face in shades of cold blue, her sharp mind already calculating probabilities and devising strategies.

Her workspace was an organised chaos of code streams and diagnostic tools. Liang thrived in this environment—where others saw complexity, she saw patterns, like the threads of a tapestry waiting to be unravelled.

“Wen-Liao,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the hum of her equipment. “Let’s see if you’ve left me anything to play with.”

In the staging area, Mei Fong oversaw the preparation of their transport and equipment. She carried herself with an air of calm authority, her sharp eyes scanning every detail, from the placement of weapons to the alignment of tactical supplies.

Her mind worked like a chessboard, always several moves ahead. Extraction routes, fallback positions, contingencies for contingencies—it was a web of possibilities that Mei wove with ease.

“Haruka will handle the bloodshed,” she mused to herself, her tone laced with dry humour. “Liang will crack their defences. And I... I’ll make sure we all come back alive.”

The three operatives regrouped in the hangar, where their transport awaited—a sleek, matte-black aircraft bristling with concealed weaponry and state-of-the-art cloaking technology. Elan stood by the ramp, his arms crossed, his gaze unwavering.

“Everything is in place,” he said, his tone a quiet command. “You have your roles. You have your directives. Now execute.”

Haruka nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Consider it done.”

Liang Wei adjusted her glasses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Time to see if the FAC can keep up.”

Mei Fong tilted her head toward Elan, her voice calm but confident. “We’ll deliver, Captain. You’ll have your message.”

As the aircraft ascended into the night sky, the three operatives sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts. The hum of the engines was a steady rhythm, a metronome counting down to the moment of action.

Haruka sharpened his blade, the faint rasp of metal on stone the only sound in the cabin. Liang studied the encrypted data streams on her tablet, her fingers flicking across the screen with practised ease. Mei leaned back, her eyes half-closed as she mentally rehearsed every detail of the extraction plan.

Beyond the cabin windows, the world stretched out like an infinite void, the darkness swallowing the horizon. Somewhere ahead lay the Obsidian Peaks—and the secrets they were tasked with silencing.

The rain drummed against the windows of Chief Wen-Li’s office, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the ticking clock on the wall. Wen-Li, seated behind her meticulously organised desk, flipped through the final pages of a document. Her sharp eyes scanned the contents, her focus unyielding. The soft hum of her intercom broke the silence.

“Chief, Commander Krieg has arrived,” said the voice on the other end.

“Send him in,” Wen-Li replied, her tone brisk.

Moments later, Commander Krieg entered, his boots echoing against the polished floor. He was a man of broad shoulders and sharp edges, his presence as imposing as his reputation. Closing the door behind him, he approached her desk and saluted.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“You called for me, Chief?” Krieg asked, his gravelly voice tinged with curiosity.

Wen-Li didn’t look up immediately. Instead, she slid a document across the desk toward him. “Yes, Commander. You are heading to Obsidian Peak.”

Krieg’s expression stiffened as he glanced down at the document. “Chief, that’s SCP territory. If we interfere, they would—”

Wen-Li’s sharp gaze cut through his protest like a blade. “They would what, Commander?” she interrupted, her voice as calm and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Lodge a formal complaint? Escalate hostilities? The SCP thrives on intimidation, but their bark is often louder than their bite. We are not here to cower; we are here to act.”

She stood, her presence commanding. “The Field Operations Unit has gathered intelligence indicating increased SCP activity near Obsidian Peak. Whatever they’re hiding, it is significant enough to warrant their operatives’ deployment. We cannot afford to ignore this.”

Krieg nodded, though unease flickered across his face. “Understood, Chief. Who am I taking with me?”

“Lieutenant Nightingale and Captain Robert, along with their teams,” Wen-Li replied, her tone firm. “I trust you to ensure this mission’s success, Krieg. We cannot afford failure.”

He nodded, saluted, and left the room, her words still resonating like the echo of a distant storm.

As Krieg descended the stairs, his mind buzzed with Wen-Li’s orders. The weight of the mission was heavy, but not unfamiliar. His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted Captain Robert in the lounge, seated with Captain Lingaong Xuein.

The two were sharing a moment of quiet conversation, their laughter soft and easy. Robert leaned slightly closer to Lingaong Xuein, his hand resting on the table beside his steaming coffee. Lingaong Xuein, usually so composed, seemed to let her guard down, her expression softer than Krieg had ever seen.

Krieg smirked to himself, his inner mischief surfacing. He cleared his throat theatrically, followed by a low chuckle. “Heheheh.”

The pair turned toward him, startled. Lingaong Xuein’s cheeks flushed faintly, while Robert straightened in his chair, his composure returning in an instant.

“Commander,” Robert said, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Krieg replied, a teasing glint in his eye. “I hate to interrupt this... coffee summit, but duty calls. You’re heading to Obsidian Peak with me. Briefing in twenty.”

Robert groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Obsidian Peak? Fantastic. Nothing like freezing rain and hostile territory to start the week.”

Lingaong Xuein shot Krieg a pointed look, her tone wry. “And I assume you couldn’t wait five more minutes to deliver this news?”

Krieg grinned. “Time waits for no one, Captain. Especially not for romance over cappuccinos.”

In the dimly lit confines of the SDF hideout, Madam Di-Xian stood by the wide observation window of her office, her gaze fixed on the city skyline. The glow of neon lights reflected in her dark eyes, their flickering radiance a contrast to her unflinching expression.

Behind her, Gonda Subuchi, her trusted informant, relayed the latest intelligence.

“Madam,” Gonda said, his voice low but clear, “the SSCBF is preparing a mission to Obsidian Peak. Commander Krieg is leading the charge. Meanwhile, SCP operatives Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong have been deployed to intercept and neutralise their efforts.”

Madam Di-Xian’s brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The Obsidian Peak... always a hotbed for secrets and shadows.” She turned to Gonda, her voice sharp and decisive. “This cannot be allowed to escalate unchecked. We must act.”

She pressed a button on her desk intercom. “Send Alvi to my office immediately.”

Minutes later, Alvi entered, her tablet in hand, her expression alert but calm.

“You called, Madam?” Alvi asked, standing at attention.

Madam Di-Xian gestured for her to approach. “I need detailed intel on the SCP’s activities at Obsidian Peak. Cross-reference it with our archives and the most recent field reports. Time is of the essence.”

“Understood, Madam,” Alvi said, already typing notes into her tablet.

Madam Di-Xian’s gaze shifted, her voice lowering. “Summon Agent-90.”

Alvi hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Right away.”

Agent-90 entered the office like a shadow made flesh, his black attire blending seamlessly with the dim interior. His piercing blue eyes, framed by the cold glint of his spectacles, locked onto Di-Xian with unwavering focus.

“Agent-90,” Madam Di-Xian began, her tone measured but commanding. “The SSCBF is walking into a trap at Obsidian Peak. SCP operatives are already en route to intercept them.”

Agent-90 nodded once, his expression unreadable.

“You are to eliminate these operatives before they can harm the SSCBF officers,” Di-Xian continued. “As always, you will act alone. Your target list includes Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong—skilled, ruthless, and dangerous. Do you understand the gravity of this mission?”

“Yes, Madam,” Agent-90 replied, his voice devoid of inflection, his stoicism like a wall of ice.

Madam Di-Xian leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Failure is not an option. We are playing a game of shadows, and I will not have us outmaneuvered.”

Agent-90 inclined his head, turning to leave without another word.

As Agent-90 departed, Alvi watched him go, a faint shiver running down her spine. His presence was like the calm before a storm—silent, yet crackling with the promise of impending chaos.

Madam Di-Xian turned to Alvi, her voice softer now. “Prepare the resources he’ll need. And Alvi...”

“Yes, Madam?”

“Pray that he succeeds.”

The tension in the room was palpable as the pieces began to move, each player unknowingly advancing toward a collision that would shake the fragile balance of power.

Meanwhile the SCP Citadel, a fortress of steel and stone, loomed over the surrounding city like a monument to authority and fear. In the heart of this unyielding edifice, Gavriel Elazar, head of the SCP, sat at his massive desk, its surface cluttered with holographic projections, encrypted files, and intelligence reports. The cold light from a single overhead lamp cast sharp shadows across the room, reflecting the cold efficiency of its occupant.

Gavriel’s eyes flickered over the glowing display before him, his fingers tapping methodically against the desk. The encrypted data regarding Obsidian Peak pulsed on the screen like a heartbeat, each fragment of intelligence a piece of the larger puzzle he sought to control.

The heavy door to Gavriel’s office slid open with a soft hiss, and an operative entered, his footsteps measured and deliberate. He stood at attention, his posture rigid as he addressed Gavriel.

“Sir, the operatives—Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong—have been deployed to Obsidian Peak. They are en route as we speak.”

Gavriel leaned back in his chair, his sharp features illuminated by the dim light. His lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. “Good. Ensure the SSCBF doesn’t make it past the outer perimeter. I want this mission to be a resounding success.”

“Yes, sir,” the operative replied. But before he could turn to leave, he hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the corridor.

“What is it?” Gavriel demanded, his tone sharp.

The operative swallowed. “Sir... the Boss has arrived.”

A voice, deep and commanding, echoed through the corridor, its tone resonating like the toll of a funeral bell.

“Does the great Syndicate now tremble when I approach? Or have you all grown complacent in my absence?”

The operative stiffened, his face pale as he stepped aside. Gavriel stood immediately, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression a careful mask of deference.

As the door slid open, Netanyahu Hoffam, the enigmatic leader of the Fourteenth Society, stepped inside. His presence was overwhelming, a storm contained within the frame of a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his every movement exuding authority. His dark, tailored suit was immaculate, and his eyes—cold and piercing—seemed to dissect the room with a single glance.

Gavriel and the operative dropped to their knees, their heads bowed low.

“Boss,” Gavriel murmured, his voice reverent.

Netanyahu stepped forward, extending his hand, its fingers adorned with a single, gleaming signet ring. Gavriel leaned forward and kissed the ring with a precise reverence, his lips brushing the cold metal.

“It is an honour to have you here,” Gavriel said, his tone unctuous. “We have been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation.”

Netanyahu’s expression didn’t change as he withdrew his hand. “Then show me why I came, Gavriel. I do not deal in anticipation. I will deal with the results.”

Gavriel rose and gestured toward an imposing leather chair opposite his desk. “Please, Boss, sit. Let us discuss the plan.”

Netanyahu moved to the chair with measured steps, each one a reminder of his dominance. He sat with the grace of a king on his throne, his posture relaxed but brimming with latent power.

“So, Gavriel,” Netanyahu began, his voice even but carrying the weight of an unspoken threat, “what progress have you made on the matter we discussed? The resonance sites? The Fourteenth Families’ objectives?”

Gavriel nodded, his hands clasped in front of him like a servant presenting a gift. “The plan is proceeding as expected. The SCP operatives have been deployed to Obsidian Peak to ensure the SSCBF’s interference is neutralised. The resonance remains secure, and no one outside our circle is aware of its full significance.”

Netanyahu’s sharp gaze bored into him. “No one?”

Gavriel hesitated. “There has been... a complication.”

Netanyahu’s expression darkened, his presence suddenly suffocating. “Explain.”

Gavriel exhaled, his voice measured but strained. “Captain Wen-Liao of the FAC has uncovered fragments of information regarding the Fourteenth Society. He retrieved an encrypted message during his mission in the Arctic, and while his understanding is limited, it poses a risk.”

Netanyahu’s lips curled into a sneer. “Wen-Liao. A soldier bound by his conscience. A noble fool.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “The FAC must be kept in the dark, Gavriel. If they piece together the truth, it will bring ruin to everything we’ve built. Ensure that Wen-Liao is silenced—permanently.”

“It will be done,” Gavriel assured him. “We are already taking measures to intercept him.”

Netanyahu’s tone shifted, becoming colder, more dangerous. “And what of his sister? Chief Wen-Li of the SSCBF? She is no stranger to meddling in matters she doesn’t comprehend.”

Gavriel hesitated briefly. “Wen-Li remains a formidable adversary, but she is... manageable. The SSCBF is being drawn into our web, and they will find themselves entangled before they realise the trap has closed.”

“And Agent-90?” Netanyahu asked, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Your so-called ‘weapon’ now turned against you?”

Gavriel’s jaw tightened, his frustration visible for the first time. “Agent-90 has proven... problematic. He is elusive, unpredictable, and relentless. But rest assured, Boss, we are closing in on him. It is only a matter of time.”

Netanyahu leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, his expression inscrutable. For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke.

“Time is not a luxury we can afford, Gavriel,” Netanyahu said finally, his voice as sharp as broken glass. “The SSCBF, the FAC, Agent-90—they are all obstacles. Remove them. Permanently. The Fourteenth Society does not tolerate failure.”

Gavriel bowed his head. “Understood, Boss. It will be done.”

Netanyahu rose, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. “See that it is. I will not return to find my empire compromised.”

As he strode toward the door, his voice echoed behind him like the tolling of a bell. “Failure, Gavriel, is not an option.”

Gavriel watched him leave, his fists clenched at his sides. When the door closed, he exhaled slowly, his mind already racing with plans. The game was in motion, and the stakes had never been higher.

The SDF hideout was a labyrinth of steel corridors and dimly lit chambers, where shadows clung to every surface like spectres refusing to let go. In a secluded operations room, Alvi worked diligently, her fingers gliding over a console as she prepared the resources for Agent-90’s mission. The low hum of the equipment was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional beep of a completed task.

On the table before her lay a compact but deadly array: specialised firearms, a tactical knife with a plasma edge, encrypted communication devices, and a slim tablet containing the mission’s details. Each item was meticulously checked, its purpose calibrated to suit the mission’s demands.

The door hissed open, and Agent-Jun sauntered in, his expression a mix of curiosity and his usual nonchalant charm. “Alvi, what’s with the arsenal? Preparing for a small war, are we?”

Alvi glanced up briefly, her sharp eyes betraying her impatience. “It’s not for you, Jun, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s for Agent-90. He’s heading to Obsidian Peak.”

Jun froze mid-step, his playful smirk faltering. “Obsidian Peak?” he repeated, his voice tinged with surprise. “That’s practically a death sentence. What’s going on?”

Alvi sighed, setting down a plasma magazine with deliberate care. “The SCP operatives are already en route. Madam Di-Xian has tasked Agent-90 with eliminating them before they can harm the SSCBF officers heading there.”

Jun’s brow furrowed, his usual levity replaced by concern. “And you’re just... letting him go alone? He’s not exactly invincible, you know.”

Alvi gave him a pointed look. “It’s Agent-90, Jun. He’s not invincible, but he’s as close as it gets.”

The door slid open again, and Agent-90 stepped inside, his movements silent, his presence commanding. Dressed in his signature black attire, his face concealed beneath his high-collared coat and dark spectacles, he seemed more shadow than man.

He approached the table without a word, his sharp blue eyes scanning the equipment. Satisfied, he began methodically strapping on the gear.

Jun crossed his arms, his expression a mix of irritation and concern. “Hey,” he said, his tone casual but edged with something deeper, “you’re just going to waltz into SCP territory without a word to anyone?”

Agent-90 paused, turning to Jun with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. “I don’t ‘waltz,’ Jun,” he replied in his characteristic monotone.

As he finished securing his gear, Agent-90 turned slightly, his gaze meeting Jun’s. “Thanks,” he said abruptly, his voice as devoid of inflection as ever.

Jun blinked, caught off guard by the rare expression of gratitude. “Thanks? For what?”

“For saving Wen-Li,” Agent-90 replied, adjusting his spectacles with a practiced motion. “If you hadn’t intervened, Ferro would have succeeded.”

Jun stared at him, his brow furrowing further as he tried to process the combination of gratitude and stoicism. “You’re... welcome, I guess? But seriously, do you even feel anything? You’re thanking me, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

Agent-90’s face remained impassive. “Feelings don’t complete missions, Jun. Actions do.”

Jun ran a hand through his hair, his frustration tempered by a flicker of amusement. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a ‘ghost,’ you’re painfully real sometimes. Just... try not to die out there, yeah? Come back. We’ll wait for you.”

Agent-90 nodded once, the gesture barely more than a shift of his head, before turning to leave.

As the door closed behind Agent-90, Jun exhaled deeply, turning back to Alvi. “I don’t get him,” he said, shaking his head. “How can someone be so... mechanical? It’s like he’s not even human.”

Alvi glanced up from her console, her expression softening slightly. “He’s human, Jun. He just doesn’t show it. Not the way you or I do.”

Jun leaned against the table, his arms crossed. “Yeah, well, I wish he’d show it once in a while. He acts like the whole world rests on his shoulders.”

Alvi’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Maybe because, in a way, it does. You don’t get to be Agent-90 without sacrificing something... or everything.”

Jun sighed again, his gaze drifting to the closed door. “He better come back. If he doesn’t, I’m going to haunt him in whatever afterlife he ends up in.”

Alvi chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Outside, the night was a shroud of darkness, the air sharp with the chill of impending rain. Agent-90 moved through the shadows like a wraith, his steps silent, his purpose unwavering.

As he boarded the sleek, black transport awaiting him, the engines hummed to life. The vehicle’s lights cut through the gloom, illuminating the path ahead—a path fraught with danger and uncertainty.

Inside, Agent-90 adjusted his gear, his mind a fortress of focus. For him, there was no room for doubt, no space for hesitation. He was a blade honed to perfection, a weapon forged in the crucible of necessity.

As the transport sped toward Obsidian Peak, the faint glimmer of dawn began to creep over the horizon. But for Agent-90, the light was a distant, irrelevant thing. His world was the shadows, and in the shadows, he thrived.

The city glistened beneath a blanket of rain, its neon lights smeared like a painter’s careless brushstrokes on a wet canvas. Ferro, perched atop the skeletal remains of an abandoned clocktower, watched the world below with the detached interest of a hawk circling its prey. His lean frame was clad in a jet-black combat suit, its fibres engineered for stealth, absorbing light like a bottomless abyss.

The soft patter of rain against his visor was a lullaby of chaos—a soothing background to the storm brewing in his mind. He adjusted the sleek sniper rifle balanced on its bipod before him, its barrel aimed at nothing for now, but always ready. Ferro was not a man of patience, yet he waited. Always. His life was a perpetual hunt, a cycle of blood and shadows, of purpose stripped down to the raw mechanics of survival.

Ferro’s gloved hand drifted to his ribs, where faint scars still burned beneath the fabric—a cruel reminder of his last failure. Wen-Li, the Chief of SSCBF, had escaped his bullet because of one meddling fool: Agent-Jun. Ferro’s teeth clenched at the memory, his jaw tight like a vice.

“She should’ve been dead,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rasping like sandpaper against stone. “That boy... that blasted boy.”

The rain intensified, as if mocking him, each droplet a sharp sting on his pride. Ferro closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, the scent of wet metal and ozone filling his lungs. He was a predator who had let his prey slip through his fingers. Unacceptable.

The faint vibration on his wrist broke his reverie. His communicator flashed red—a summons. Ferro activated it, and the cold, calculating voice of Gavriel Elazar came through.

“Ferro,” Gavriel began, his tone like ice cracking under pressure, “where are you?”

“Where I always am,” Ferro replied dryly, “watching, waiting, planning. You don’t pay me to make noise.”

“Good,” Gavriel said. “Because your next assignment will require silence—and success.”

Ferro smirked beneath his visor. “I’m listening.”

“The SSCBF is moving toward Obsidian Peak,” Gavriel explained, his voice devoid of emotion. “They’ll bring the Field Operations Unit, and likely Commander Krieg. But there’s more.”

Ferro’s eyes narrowed. “More?”

“Agent-90,” Gavriel said, the name slicing through the air like a blade.

Ferro’s smirk faltered, replaced by a grim line. “The ghost,” he muttered. “That makes things... interesting.”

“I don’t need ‘interesting,’” Gavriel snapped. “I need them eliminated. You’ll rendezvous with the operatives—Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong—at Obsidian Peak. They’ll handle the SSCBF’s interference. You, Ferro, will eliminate Agent-90.”

Ferro leaned back against the clocktower’s crumbling wall, his free hand adjusting the straps on his gear. “Agent-90, Wen-Li... you’re throwing me into the lion’s den, Gavriel.”

“And you’re the wolf,” Gavriel replied. “I expect you to remember that.”

The line went dead, leaving Ferro in the deafening silence of his own thoughts. He looked down at his rifle, his fingers tracing its sleek frame.

“A wolf,” he murmured, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Then let’s see who howls last.”

The transport that carried Ferro to Obsidian Peak was a sleek, black spectre of a vehicle, slicing through the rain-slicked streets like a dagger through silk. Inside, Ferro sat alone, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the dossier Gavriel had sent.

The holographic images of Agent-90, Wen-Li, and the SSCBF team floated before him, each one a target painted in faint light. Ferro studied their faces, memorising their movements, their patterns, their weaknesses.

As the transport neared its destination, Ferro closed the dossier with a flick of his wrist, leaning back in his seat.

“Wolves hunt in packs,” he murmured to himself, his voice a low growl. “But I prefer to hunt alone.”

The vehicle came to a halt on the outskirts of Obsidian Peak, its jagged terrain veiled in a cloak of mist and moonlight. Ferro stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. The air was sharp and cold, each breath a shard of ice in his lungs.

Ahead, he saw the faint figures of Haruka Asano, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong, their silhouettes blending into the shadows like phantoms. Ferro approached them, his movements as silent as a predator stalking its prey.

Haruka turned first, his blade gleaming faintly at his side. “You’re late,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Fashionably,” Ferro replied, his smirk returning.

Liang Wei snorted. “Just don’t get in the way.”

Ferro’s eyes glinted behind his visor. “I won’t. But I will get the job done.”

As the team moved toward their positions, Ferro hung back, his rifle slung across his shoulder. His gaze lingered on the mist-shrouded peaks ahead, his mind a battlefield of strategies and contingencies.

“This time,” he murmured to himself, his voice lost in the wind, “there won’t be any mistakes.”

The Presidential Office of the SSCBF was a study in calculated power—ornate without excess, its every corner tailored to exude authority. The polished mahogany desk, the glint of medals in their display cases, and the muted hum of surveillance equipment created a space where decisions of immense consequence were made without hesitation.

President Zhang Wei, a man of commanding stature and cold eyes, sat behind his desk, his posture a portrait of control. His tailored suit was immaculate, the gold emblem of the SSCBF pinned to his lapel gleaming faintly in the overhead light. A single, blinking red light on his communication console disrupted the serenity—a direct transmission from Gavriel Elazar, the head of the SCP.

Zhang Wei leaned forward, pressing a button to activate the encrypted line. Gavriel’s voice came through, smooth as silk but with the undercurrent of a predator’s growl.

“President Zhang Wei,” Gavriel began, his tone polite but edged with menace, “I trust this line is secure.”

“Of course,” Zhang Wei replied, his voice calm, almost disinterested. “What news do you bring, Sir Gavriel?”

“News of urgency,” Gavriel said, his words deliberate. “My operatives are heading to Obsidian Peak. The resonance there cannot fall into the wrong hands. However, I’ve received word that your Field Operations Unit is mobilising as well.”

Zhang Wei’s eyes narrowed, his fingers steepling as he leaned back in his chair. “A coincidence, I’m sure.”

“Coincidence is a luxury neither of us can afford,” Gavriel countered, his voice as cold as Arctic frost. “If your agents interfere with my operatives, there will be consequences. Let me handle this.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, save for the faint hum of the communication line. Then, Zhang’s lips curled into a sinister smile.

“Your operatives may be skilled, Gavriel, but they are not invincible. Neither are you,” Zhang Wei said, his tone almost mocking. “I’ve already dispatched a team. Let us see who emerges victorious.”

Gavriel’s tone sharpened. “You play a dangerous game, Zhang.”

Zhang Wei’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. “It’s only dangerous if I lose. Good day, Gavriel.”

The line went dead, leaving Zhang to his thoughts. He turned to the intercom on his desk, pressing another button.

“Summon Dr. Abrar,” he commanded. “I have need of his creations.”

Minutes later, Dr. Abrar, the head of SSCBF’s Research and Development Division, entered the room. His presence was less imposing than the President’s, but his intellect radiated from him like a beacon. His lab coat was spotless, and his glasses reflected the dim light as he stood at attention.

“You summoned me, Mr. President?” Abrar asked, his tone formal but tinged with unease.

Zhang Wei nodded, gesturing for him to approach. “Dr. Abrar, I require your... finest creations. The agents you’ve been enhancing. Deploy them to Obsidian Peak immediately.”

Abrar’s brow furrowed, a faint chill running down his spine. “Obsidian Peak, sir? That’s a volatile zone. Are you certain—”

Zhang Wei cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Do not question me, Doctor. The SCP’s operatives are moving, and I refuse to let them gain the upper hand. Your agents will ensure that we dominate this theatre of operations.”

Abrar hesitated, his stomach twisting in unease. “Of course, Mr. President,” he said, inclining his head. “I will prepare them at once.”

Zhang leaned back, his sinister smile returning. “Good. Let them see the power of science when it is wielded with purpose.”

In the sterile, clinical expanse of the R&D Division, Dr. Abrar stood before a row of cryopods, each one containing an agent enhanced with the latest cybernetic and genetic modifications. The room was cold, both in temperature and in atmosphere, the blue glow of the pods casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Abrar’s fingers hovered over the control panel, his mind racing. The President’s orders were clear, but something about this mission felt... wrong. A chill prickled at the back of his neck, as if unseen eyes were watching him.

He glanced at the nearest pod, where a young woman’s face was visible through the frosted glass. Her enhancements were state-of-the-art, her abilities far beyond human limits. Yet even in her artificial stillness, there was something unsettling about her.

Abrar exhaled shakily, his breath fogging in the cold air. “What are we doing?” he muttered to himself. “This isn’t science. This is madness.”

As he activated the pods, Abrar’s thoughts drifted back to the President’s sinister smile, the way his words had carried an undercurrent of something darker. The agents in these pods were powerful, yes, but they were also unpredictable, their enhancements pushing the boundaries of human morality and control.

A faint hum filled the room as the pods began to open, releasing bursts of cold vapour. The agents stirred, their movements precise and mechanical as they stepped forward.

Abrar swallowed hard, his unease deepening. “They’ll win,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of machinery. “But at what cost?”

From the first pod stepped Kyra Lang, known by her code name Vortex. Her raven-black hair clung to her face, damp from the cryogenic process, and her silver irises glowed faintly in the dim light, a side effect of her ocular augmentations. She flexed her fingers experimentally, the servomotors in her cybernetic arms whirring softly as she clenched her fists.

Her voice was cold, clipped, and devoid of warmth. “Mission parameters, Doctor.”

Abrar hesitated for a moment, his unease rising like bile in his throat. “You’ll receive the full briefing en route,” he said. “For now, prepare yourselves. The President expects nothing less than perfection.”

Vortex tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp and calculating. “Perfection is the baseline, Doctor. Failure is a luxury we cannot afford.”

From the next pod emerged Aymeric Moreau, his code name fittingly Phantom. His lithe frame moved with the fluid grace of a shadow slipping through cracks in reality. His augmented musculature was subtly woven into his form, giving him the appearance of a predator perpetually on the cusp of a pounce.

Phantom’s piercing grey eyes swept the room, his expression inscrutable. Without a word, he drew a blade from the magnetic sheath on his thigh, testing its edge against the light.

“I hope this mission is worth waking us for,” he said, his French-accented voice carrying a faint note of amusement. “The last one was... disappointingly mundane.”

Kyra shot him a sidelong glance. “If it’s SCP territory, Phantom, you’ll get your bloodletting. Don’t worry.”

The third pod opened with a sharp hiss, revealing Elias Kovach, codenamed Tempest. His towering figure was augmented with subdermal armour and reinforced limbs, giving him an almost mechanical presence. A faint crackle of static clung to the air around him, a side effect of the experimental energy conduits embedded in his body.

Tempest rolled his shoulders, the faint whir of servomotors audible as he tested his range of motion. His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. “SCP territory, eh? Sounds like a storm waiting to happen.”

Phantom smirked. “Careful, Tempest. You might electrocute yourself again.”

Tempest shot him a glare, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That was one time, Phantom. And I still got the job done.”

As the three agents gathered, Abrar approached hesitantly, holding a holographic display tablet that projected a detailed map of Obsidian Peak.

“This,” Abrar began, his voice faltering slightly, “is your target zone. SCP operatives are already in the area, and the SSCBF’s Field Operations Unit is en route. Your primary objective is to neutralise any threats to SSCBF interests and secure the resonance site before it falls into enemy hands.”

Vortex’s eyes narrowed as she studied the map. “And the secondary objective?”

Abrar hesitated. “Eliminate... anyone who poses a threat to the SSCBF. No exceptions.”

Phantom’s lips curled into a sharp smile. “No exceptions. My favourite kind of mission.”

Tempest crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on Abrar. “What aren’t you telling us, Doctor?”

Abrar’s unease deepened, the weight of the President’s expectations pressing down on him like a vice. “This mission is of the utmost importance. Failure is not an option.”

As the agents moved to gather their equipment, the tension in the room lightened slightly, a strange camaraderie emerging among the trio.

Phantom glanced at Vortex, his tone playful. “You still keep count of your kills, Kyra, or have you lost track?”

Vortex smirked faintly. “Still counting. I’m ahead of you by twelve, by the way.”

Tempest chuckled, the sound like distant thunder. “You two and your numbers. You know they don’t matter in the end, right?”

Phantom raised an eyebrow. “Says the man who once smashed an entire wall just to kill one operative.”

“It was efficient,” Tempest replied, his tone mock-defensive.

“Efficiently loud,” Vortex added dryly.

As the agents departed the room, their footsteps echoing against the steel floors, Abrar remained behind, his hands gripping the edge of the console. The chill that had settled in his spine refused to dissipate, a gnawing dread he couldn’t quite shake.

“They’ll win,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “They always do. But... at what cost?”

His gaze lingered on the empty cryopods, their faint mist dissipating into the sterile air. The shadows of his creations loomed large, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had unleashed something far more dangerous than even he could control.

The Obsidian Peak loomed ahead, its jagged silhouette piercing the storm-laden sky like a malevolent crown. The torrential rain lashed against the rugged terrain, its icy droplets forming rivulets that carved paths through the blackened rock. Thunder growled in the distance, its rumble reverberating like the warning of an ancient, slumbering beast.

Through this desolate landscape, the enhanced agents moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Kyra Lang (Vortex) led the group, her silver eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light as she scanned their surroundings. Behind her, Aymeric Moreau (Phantom) moved silently, his shadow-like presence blending seamlessly with the dark environment. Elias Kovach (Tempest) brought up the rear, his towering frame exuding menace as faint arcs of static danced along the conduits embedded in his arms.

“Keep your wits about you,” Vortex said, her voice cold and clipped, barely audible over the pounding rain. “The SSCBF will have boots on the ground. Let’s make sure they regret it.”

Phantom chuckled softly, his voice like silk draped over steel. “Regret is such a weak word. I prefer... despair.”

Tempest smirked but said nothing, his attention fixed on the ominous terrain ahead.

On the other side of the Peak, the SSCBF Field Operations Unit, led by Commander Krieg, arrived in a convoy of armoured vehicles. The rumble of their engines was drowned out by the relentless downpour, but the sharp beams of their headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the treacherous path.

Lieutenant Nightingale stepped out first, her tactical boots splashing into the muddy ground as she surveyed their surroundings. Behind her, Captain Robert emerged, followed by his team: Demitin, Tao-Ren, Sakim, and Daishoji. Each of them was clad in heavy-duty combat gear, their weapons ready, their faces set with grim determination.

The rain pelted their helmets, and thunder cracked above them like nature’s war drum.

“Bloody miserable place,” Sakim muttered, adjusting his rifle. “Feels like the set of a horror film.”

Demitin rolled her eyes. “You’re the comic relief, Sakim. Try not to get killed first.”

Commander Krieg’s voice cut through the banter like a knife. “Enough chatter. Spread out and secure the area. Whatever’s going on here, I want answers.”

The team moved through the terrain with practised precision, their boots crunching against gravel and mud. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and ozone, the faint crackle of static hinting at the unnatural forces lingering in the area.

Tao-Ren, her sharp eyes scanning the surrounding cliffs, noticed faint scorch marks along the rock face. “Commander,” she called, gesturing for Krieg to join her. “These don’t look natural.”

Krieg crouched beside her, his gloved fingers brushing the marks. “No, they don’t. Looks like energy weapon discharge. Recent, too.”

Nearby, Daishoji knelt beside a cluster of footprints embedded in the mud. “Multiple hostiles,” he said, his voice calm but tense. “Lightly armoured. Moving fast.”

Nightingale’s voice crackled over the comms. “Commander, we’ve got movement. East ridge.”

The first shot rang out like a thunderclap, and chaos erupted. Haruka Asano, moving with the grace of a predator, struck first, her katana slicing through the air with deadly precision. The SSCBF team scrambled for cover, returning fire as Haruka’s blade deflected bullets with ease.

From the shadows, Ferro emerged, his sniper rifle spitting death with unerring accuracy. Liang Wei and Mei Fong flanked the team, their attacks coordinated, each strike calculated to sow confusion and panic.

Commander Krieg barked orders, his voice rising above the cacophony. “Hold your ground! Pin them down!”

But even as the SSCBF fought back, it became clear that something was wrong. Their own agents—men and women they had trusted—turned their weapons against them, their eyes glowing an eerie, bloodshot red.

Captain Robert, firing from behind cover, caught sight of one of the agents advancing toward them with unnerving precision. His stomach sank as he noticed the agent’s bloodshot eyes and rigid, unnatural movements.

“They’re hypnotised!” Robert shouted, his voice strained. “They’re not themselves! Something’s controlling them!”

Haruka, standing amidst the chaos with a smirk, called out to Krieg. “Do you see it now, Commander? Your loyal soldiers, your so-called heroes—they’re nothing more than puppets.”

Krieg’s eyes burned with fury as he pointed his weapon at Haruka. “You arrogant bastard! I’ll gut you myself!”

Haruka’s smirk widened. “You’re welcome to try.”

Back at the SSCBF headquarters, Chief Wen-Li sat at her desk, pouring over reports with an intensity that made the air in her office feel heavy. Her focus was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” she said sharply.

The door opened to reveal Dr. Abrar, his usual composure undermined by a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Dr. Abrar,” Wen-Li began, her tone icy, “where are the enhanced agents?”

Abrar hesitated, his unease evident. “They’ve been deployed to Obsidian Peak, Chief. On orders from the President.”

Wen-Li froze, her pen stilling in her hand. “The President?” she repeated, her voice low and dangerous.

Abrar nodded nervously. “Yes. He ordered their deployment personally.”

Wen-Li rose from her chair, her expression thunderous. “He sent them into SCP territory without consulting me?”

Abrar opened his mouth to respond, but Wen-Li didn’t wait. She stormed out of her office, her heels clicking against the floor like the ticking of a bomb.

The door to President Zhang Wei’s office burst open, revealing Wen-Li, her face a mask of barely restrained fury.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Why did you send the enhanced agents to Obsidian Peak without my authorisation?”

Zhang Wei looked up from his desk, his expression calm, almost amused. “Because, Chief, this is a matter of national security. The SCP’s interference cannot be ignored.”

“You had no right,” Wen-Li snapped. “They are my responsibility, not yours!”

Zhang leaned back in his chair, his sinister smile returning. “You forget your place, Wen-Li. The agents exist to serve the SSCBF, not your personal agenda. And if you cannot see that, perhaps you are the one who needs reminding.”

Wen-Li’s hands clenched into fists, but she forced herself to remain composed. “If anything happens to them, Zhang, the blame will fall squarely on you.”

Zhang’s smile widened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The torrential rain hammered down with relentless ferocity, turning the jagged terrain of Obsidian Peak into a battlefield shrouded in shadow and thunder. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the frenzied clash below—blades sang through the air, bullets ricocheted off slick rock, and the sharp cries of battle merged with the cacophony of the storm.

The SCP operatives moved with the precision of predators, their every strike calculated to cripple the SSCBF team. Haruka Asano, her katana a streak of silver, carved through resistance with the grace of a dancer and the lethality of a viper. Liang Wei, crouched behind cover, unleashed a barrage of coordinated fire, her sniper rifle barking death across the battlefield. Beside him, Mei Fong, the strategist, orchestrated the chaos, her commands cutting through the storm like shards of ice.

Commander Krieg, caught in a relentless melee, parried Haruka’s blade with his combat knife, his teeth bared in a grimace. “You think a sword will take me down, Asano?” he snarled, his voice ragged.

Haruka smirked, her bloodshot eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “A sword? No. But loyalty turned against you? Yes.”

On the battlefield, Kyra Lang (Vortex) moved like a wraith, her silver eyes locking onto Tao-Ren. With a flick of her wrist, her augmented arm extended, its hydraulic mechanisms hissing as she disarmed Tao-Ren in a single, brutal motion.

“Tao!” shouted Demitin, rushing forward to help, only to be intercepted by Aymeric Moreau (Phantom). He struck with a bladed gauntlet, his movements fluid and predatory, driving Demitin back with calculated ease.

Meanwhile, Elias Kovach (Tempest) unleashed a surge of crackling energy from the conduits in his arms, sending Sakim and Daishoji sprawling into the mud, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground.

Captain Robert, blood trickling from a wound above his eyebrow, clenched his fists as he watched the enhanced agents wreak havoc. His keen eyes noticed the eerie bloodshot glow in their eyes, and his stomach churned.

“They’re compromised,” Robert muttered, his voice low but grim. “Manipulated. This isn’t them.”

As the SSCBF team struggled to regroup, a sharp metallic clang cut through the storm. All eyes turned toward the sound, and there, stepping from the shadows, was Agent-90.

He moved with a deliberate calm, the rain cascading off his black coat. In his hands, he swung a nunchaku, its metallic rods glinting in the faint light. At the end of one rod, a long, razor-sharp blade gleamed menacingly, its edge reflecting the chaos around it.

For a moment, silence hung heavy, broken only by the storm’s wrath. Ferro, standing atop a rocky outcrop, lowered his sniper rifle, his lips curling into a grim smile as he recognised the figure before him.

“Well, well,” Ferro said, his voice carrying through the rain. “The ghost returns. I thought I’d buried you in the past.”

Agent-90’s icy blue eyes locked onto Ferro’s, his expression unreadable, his grip tightening on the nunchaku. “You should’ve aimed deeper,” he replied, his tone flat and cutting.

From their positions, Commander Krieg and his team watched the interaction, their tension palpable.

Krieg smirked, wiping blood from his split lip. “He’s here. Of course, he’s bloody here.”

Beside him, Lieutenant Nightingale narrowed her eyes, her voice a low whisper. “How does he always show up when things go south?”

Demitin, despite the chaos, couldn’t suppress a faint grin. “Maybe he’s psychic. Or just have a death wish.”

Sakim leaned closer to Daishoji, muttering under his breath. “I’ll bet five credits he takes down Ferro in less than a minute.”

Daishoji gave a weak chuckle, wincing as he clutched his ribs. “You’re on.”

The tension snapped like a taut wire. Haruka, Liang, and Mei launched their assault, their strikes coordinated with deadly precision. But Agent-90 moved like liquid steel, his nunchaku a blur of motion.

He swung the weapon with ferocious efficiency, deflecting Haruka’s katana with a metallic clang before spinning it toward Liang. The blade at the nunchaku’s end caught the sniper’s rifle, yanking it from her grip and sending it skidding across the slick ground.

Mei lunged at him with twin daggers, but Agent-90 pivoted smoothly, using the nunchaku to block her strikes before delivering a sharp kick to her abdomen that sent her stumbling back.

Ferro seized his moment, descending from his perch with the predatory grace of a wolf. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his combat knife flashing toward Agent-90’s throat.

The two clashed, Ferro’s knife meeting the chain of the nunchaku in a shower of sparks. They circled each other like duelling serpents, their movements a deadly dance of attack and counter.

“Still quick,” Ferro growled, his knife pressing against the chain. “But speed only buys time, not victory.”

Agent-90’s gaze remained cold, his voice devoid of emotion. “Time’s all I need to bury you.”

Ferro smirked, his blade slipping closer to Agent-90’s throat. “Drop the weapon, or your precious SSCBF friends die.”

Agent-90 glanced past Ferro, his sharp eyes taking in the injured and disarmed SSCBF team. Krieg and Robert glared defiantly, while Nightingale and Tao-Ren shared a worried glance.

Before Ferro could press his advantage, a new presence entered the fray. A booming voice echoed through the rain.

“Where did they come from?” Haruka muttered, her usually calm demeanour faltering as Garofano and her squad of Sinner emerged from the mist.

Garofano, clad in her signature crimson cloak, surveyed the chaos with a sardonic smile. Blaze, his fiery presence almost palpable, stepped forward, his glowing hands leaving faint trails of heat in the rain.

“Leave Agent-90 to us,” Blaze said, his voice carrying over the storm.

Ferro turned, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t your fight, Sinner. Back off.”

Agent-90’s voice cut through the commotion, cold and steady. “If you want me,” he said, his nunchaku swinging to his side, “you’ll have to eliminate each other first.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting between the SCP operatives and the Sinners. “Let’s see who’s left standing.”

For a moment, the battlefield froze, tension crackling like lightning through the air. Garofano, Ferro, and Haruka exchanged wary glances, their alliances tested by the sudden twist.

And then, chaos erupted once more.

The air inside the SDF hideout was thick with tension, the kind that settles deep in the chest and weighs on the soul. Dim lights hummed faintly overhead, casting long shadows on the cold steel walls. The room was alive with the faint crackle of encrypted transmissions and the steady tapping of keyboards, yet a silence hung over the gathered operatives—a silence born not of peace, but of the calm before a storm.

Madam Di-Xian sat at the head of the briefing table, her posture regal and her face a mask of composed authority. Dressed in her usual flowing black attire, she exuded an aura of quiet power, her every movement deliberate, her every word measured. Beside her stood Gonda Subuchi, his expression grave as he delivered the message that had just come through.

“Madam,” Gonda began, his voice low and steady, “the SSCBF Field Operations Unit and Agent-90 have been ambushed at Obsidian Peak. SCP operatives are closing in. The situation is critical.”

The words hung in the air like a guillotine poised to drop. Around the table, the SDF agents exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of concern, anger, and disbelief.

Farhan, ever the pragmatist, clenched his jaw. “A trap? Of course, it’s a bloody trap. SCP doesn’t just play games—they play to win.”

Alvi, seated beside him with her tablet in hand, tapped nervously at the edge of the device. “Agent-90... he’s not invincible,” she murmured, her voice tinged with unease. “Even he can’t take on all of them alone. And the SSCBF agents... they don’t stand a chance if their enhanced operatives have turned against them.”

At the far end of the table, Roy leaned back in his chair, his expression grim but resolute. “If they think they can take down Agent-90, they don’t know what they’ve unleashed. He’s not just a weapon. He’s a bloody force of nature.”

Jun, even in moments of crisis, tried to mask his worry with a crooked grin. “I mean, they call him the nameless monster for a reason, right? If anyone’s walking out of that mess alive, it’s him.”

Masud, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, shot Jun a sharp look. “This isn’t the time for jokes, Jun. If we lose him, it’s not just a blow to us—it’s a blow to everything we stand for.”

Hella, one of the two SINNERs now allied with the SDF, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her youthful face, usually so animated, was unusually serious. “He’s strong,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “But even strength has limits.”

Hecate, her elder and far more stoic counterpart, placed a reassuring hand on Hella’s shoulder. “Agent-90 isn’t just strong,” she said, her tone firm and unyielding. “He’s precise. Unrelenting. If anyone can defy the odds, it’s him.”

As the operatives voiced their concerns and speculations, Madam Di-Xian raised a hand, and the room fell silent instantly. Her gaze, sharp and piercing, swept across each of them before she spoke.

“In times like these,” she began, her voice calm yet resonant, “we must remember the words of the Crimson Lotus. A single blossom may face the storm, but its roots dig deep, and its petals do not fall lightly. Agent-90 is our Crimson Lotus—unyielding, untouchable. And the petals of the dandelion, the SSCBF, may scatter in the wind, but even scattered, they remain resilient.”

Her words carried a weight that seemed to anchor the room, her calm in the face of crisis a stark contrast to the rising tension among her operatives.

“Agent-90,” she continued, “is the nameless monster, a ghost bound neither by emotion nor identity. He will return. This is not faith, nor is it hope. It is fact. He was built to endure what others cannot.”

Standing slightly behind her, Gonda watched Madam Di-Xian with quiet admiration. Her ability to command respect, to steady the ship even in the roughest waters, was unparalleled. He glanced at the operatives around the table, noting how her words seemed to settle the restless energy in the room.

“Madam,” he said carefully, “if you’re wrong, if something goes wrong at Obsidian Peak—”

“I am not wrong,” Di-Xian interrupted, her voice like a blade cutting through the doubt. “And nothing will go wrong. Because I do not allow it.”

Alvi, her earlier nerves replaced with a renewed sense of purpose, straightened in her seat. “I’ll keep tracking the SCP’s movements,” she said, her fingers flying over the tablet. “If they make any moves to reinforce their operatives, we’ll know about it.”

Madam Di-Xian nodded approvingly. “Good. Keep me informed. And prepare for contingencies. If the worst comes to pass, we will act.”

As the meeting concluded, the operatives lingered, their expressions ranging from contemplative to resolute.

Jun nudged Farhan with a smirk. “I mean, if we’re betting on anyone surviving an SCP ambush, it’s Agent-90, right? He’s like a Terminator, but without the cheesy one-liners.”

Farhan rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Just because he doesn’t talk much doesn’t mean he’s not thinking it. You’ve seen him fight, haven’t you? He’s the definition of ‘overkill.’”

Hecate, passing by them with Hella in tow, glanced over her shoulder. “Overkill is the only kind of kill that matters,” she said dryly.

Hella giggled nervously. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”

As the room emptied, Madam Di-Xian remained seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She gazed out the window at the rain-soaked city beyond, her expression unreadable.

“Nameless monster,” she murmured softly, her voice almost wistful. “Emotionless ghost. What a cruel world to demand so much from one who asks for so little.”

The storm outside seemed to echo her thoughts, its relentless fury a mirror of the battle raging far away at Obsidian Peak.

The storm above Obsidian Peak raged with an unholy fervour, lightning slicing through the blackened clouds as if heaven itself were cleaving the earth in two. The rain fell like bullets, hammering the jagged terrain and soaking the combatants who stood at a deadly impasse.

The air was thick with tension, every muscle coiled, every weapon poised. The SSCBF officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their expressions grim but resolute, while the SCP operatives, their bloodshot eyes gleaming with unholy determination, formed a line of predators ready to pounce. The Sinner squad loomed in the shadows, a wild card in this storm of chaos, their presence an unsettling reminder that the balance of power could shift at any moment.

A sharp crack split the air—a gunshot, deafening and sudden. Liang Wei, crouched behind cover with her rifle raised, jerked violently as blood erupted from her temple, painting the rocks behind her in crimson. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground, her weapon slipping from her grasp.

The shock of the shot broke the standoff, and chaos ignited like a powder keg. Agent-90, a blur of motion, closed the distance between himself and Ferro, his nunchaku swinging with deadly precision. The blunt end connected with Ferro’s face, sending him stumbling back with a grunt of pain, his hand flying to his jaw.

he storm became a backdrop to the pandemonium that erupted. Agent-90 moved like a ghost, his blade-tipped nunchaku a whirlwind of destruction. He ducked under a strike from Haruka Asano’s katana, his weapon slicing through the air with a high-pitched whistle before catching Haruka’s wrist and twisting the blade from his hand.

Ferro, recovering from the initial strike, lunged at Agent-90 with a combat knife, their movements a deadly dance of predator and prey. Ferro’s blade grazed 90’s coat as the latter spun, his nunchaku chain snapping taut as he swung it in an arc that forced Ferro to retreat.

From the ridge above, a sharp crack echoed through the storm. A single bullet, sleek and precise, screamed through the air. Aymeric Moreau (Phantom), mid-lunge toward Demitin, stumbled and collapsed as the bullet shattered his shin, his cry of pain swallowed by the thunder.

The sniper was perched atop a rock formation—her tactical outfit sleek and form-fitting, designed for agility in the field. Her raven-black hair was braided tightly against her scalp, and her pale skin gleamed faintly in the storm’s light. Her piercing grey eyes, enhanced by cybernetic implants, locked onto her next target as she chambered another round with mechanical efficiency.

The battle raged, its brutality unrelenting. The SSCBF officers, struggling to hold back their hypnotised agents, found themselves outmatched by their former comrades’ mechanical precision. Kyra Lang (Vortex) moved like a phantom, her augmented limbs striking with inhuman speed. Elias Kovach (Tempest) unleashed bursts of electricity that forced the officers into retreat, their weapons slipping from their hands as their muscles spasmed uncontrollably.

But then came the SINNERs.

Ashera, her body cloaked in shadows that danced like living things, stepped into the fray with a predator’s grace. Her Eclipsed Veil ability sent waves of disorienting darkness rippling across the battlefield, momentarily blinding the SCP operatives.

Syntara, her eyes glowing an unsettling amber, unleashed her Echoing Nightmare ability. The SCP operatives staggered, clutching their heads as whispers of fear and despair invaded their minds.

Blaze, with flames licking at his fingertips, hurled a fireball that exploded against Tempest’s chest. The enhanced agent staggered back, the bioluminescent circuits in his body flickering before they extinguished entirely.

Xira, her hands coated in a shimmering toxin, leapt onto Vortex. Her touch sent a corrosive wave through Vortex’s cybernetic implants, the hiss of melting metal merging with Vortex’s screams.

At the centre of the chaos, Captain Robert squared off against Haruka Asano, his weapon raised as the katana-wielding assassin advanced. The storm seemed to coalesce around Haruka, his movements fluid and precise, his blade flashing like silver lightning.

Robert fired, but Haruka deflected the shot with a flick of his blade, closing the gap between them in an instant. Before he could strike, Daishoji lunged in, taking the slash meant for Robert. The katana bit deep into his chest, blood splattering the muddy ground as Daishoji fell to his knees.

“Daishoji!” Robert shouted, catching him before he collapsed fully.

In that moment, Agent-90 appeared, his nunchaku whistling through the rain. With a single, brutal strike, the blade at its end slashed through Haruka’s midsection. The assassin froze, his expression one of shock as his body split apart, blood and viscera spilling onto the ground in a grotesque display.

Lieutenant Nightingale, battered but unyielding, faced off against Mei Fong. The strategist’s movements were precise, but Nightingale’s sheer determination outmatched her cunning.

With the help of Garofano, who delivered a brutal strike to Mei’s abdomen, Nightingale managed to disarm her. Tao-Ren and Demitin moved in, forcing Mei to her knees and locking her arms behind her back with handcuffs.

As the battle neared its climax, the enhanced agents found themselves overwhelmed.

Kyra Lang writhed on the ground as Xira’s toxin consumed her, her silver eyes dimming as her body convulsed. Elias Kovach, struck down by Blaze’s relentless flames, collapsed in a smoking heap. Aymeric Moreau, already incapacitated by the sniper’s shot, was finished off with a final, decisive strike from Ashera.

The battlefield fell silent, the storm’s fury the only sound that remained.

Amidst the carnage, Agent-90 and Ferro faced each other once more. Ferro lunged, his combat knife gleaming, but Agent-90 sidestepped, his nunchaku chain looping around Ferro’s neck. With a swift motion, he tightened the chain, cutting off Ferro’s air supply.

Ferro clawed at the chain, his face turning red, but Agent-90’s grip was unrelenting. He leaned in close, his voice a low, emotionless whisper. “You live only because I allow it. Leave, or next time, I won’t.”

With a final twist, Agent-90 rendered Ferro unconscious, his body slumping to the ground.

The stillness of the SDF hideout was deceptive, a thin veneer of calm masking the storm that churned beneath its surface. The dim lighting cast long shadows on the steel walls, and the soft hum of machinery was the only sound to punctuate the quiet. But in the centre of it all sat Madam Di-Xian, her presence an anchor in the chaos, her aura that of an empress surveying her court.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the table in a slow, measured rhythm as Gonda Subuchi approached with a data pad clutched in his hands. The tension in his steps was unmistakable, the kind of tension that spoke of bad news carried with reluctant urgency.

He stopped at the head of the table, bowing slightly before sliding the data pad toward Madam Di-Xian. “Madam,” he said, his voice low, “news from Obsidian Peak.”

The operatives gathered around the room turned their attention sharply toward Gonda, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Farhan, seated closest to the table, leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. Alvi, beside him, glanced nervously at the pad, her fingers twitching as if itching to retrieve it herself. Roy, Jun, and Masud, standing by the far wall, exchanged glances, each man’s expression betraying his concern. Hella and Hecate, the two SINNERs, sat in the corner, uncharacteristically quiet as they observed the exchange.

Madam Di-Xian picked up the pad with deliberate grace, her dark eyes scanning its contents. The faintest flicker of emotion crossed her face—just enough to betray that the news was significant.

She placed the pad down carefully, her expression unreadable as she addressed the room. “Agent-90 has done what no ordinary man could. Obsidian Peak is aflame, and those who sought to trap him now lie in ruin.”

The room erupted in murmurs. Jun, smirked. “Of course he did. He probably dismantled them with one hand while filing paperwork with the other.”

Farhan shot him a glare. “Not the time, Jun.”

But Jun shrugged, unfazed. “Just saying, he’s not called the nameless monster for nothing.”

Madam Di-Xian raised a hand, silencing the room instantly. Her voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of finality. “The Crimson Lotus does not falter. It does not break under the weight of storms, nor does it bow to the whims of the wind. Agent-90 is that Lotus—a ghost, a weapon, and a force that answers to no man, save this organisation.”

The tension in the room remained thick, but her words seemed to steady the nerves of those present.

Alvi, her fingers now clasped tightly around her tablet, looked up hesitantly. “Madam,” she began, her voice careful, “if the reports are accurate... the SCP operatives were not alone. There were enhanced agents from the SSCBF fighting alongside them. That means...”

Madam Di-Xian’s gaze shifted to Alvi, pinning her in place. “It means,” Di-Xian said, her tone cold, “that the SSCBF’s strings are being pulled by hands they cannot see. Their petals of the dandelion are scattered, their roots tangled with the poison of the snake.”

Roy, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “So what else is new? The SCP’s always got their hands in everything. They’ll manipulate anyone who lets them.”

Hecate, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, her tone as calm as it was unsettling. “If Agent-90 survived, then the game isn’t over yet. He’s not one to leave things unfinished.”

Madam Di-Xian rose from her chair, her movements fluid and deliberate. “Agent-90 will return,” she said with certainty. “And when he does, we will be ready. This war is far from over, but the pieces on the board have shifted in our favour.”

Turning to Gonda, she gave her next orders. “Monitor SCP activity at Obsidian Peak. Alvi, continue analysing their movements. Roy, Farhan, Jun, and Masud—you will prepare for the next strike. The Crimson Lotus does not wait for storms to pass. We walk into them and emerge stronger.”

As the operatives dispersed, Madam Di-Xian turned toward the window, gazing out at the rain-soaked city. Her reflection stared back at her, a mirror of calm authority.

“Emotionless and nameless,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. “Yet more human than any of us.”

The torrential rain had finally begun to relent, leaving a sodden battlefield littered with the wreckage of combat—broken weapons, scorched earth, and lifeless bodies. The air, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burnt circuits, hung heavy over the survivors.

Agent-90 stood amidst the carnage, his nunchaku dangling loosely in his hand, its blade tip glinting faintly in the dim light. His sharp, cold eyes scanned the scene, noting every detail with the precision of a machine. Commander Krieg, a man whose usual demeanour was ironclad, now stood frozen, his eyes locked on the broken forms of the enhanced agents—Kyra Lang, Aymeric Moreau, and Elias Kovach. Their lifeless bodies lay contorted, twisted by the unnatural strength they once wielded.

Krieg’s breathing was ragged, his fists clenched tightly as he muttered under his breath. “Monsters,” he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and despair. “Abrar... that bloody madman turned them into monsters.”

Captain Robert, bloodied but standing tall, approached Krieg with slow, measured steps. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, his usually calm eyes now stormy.

“Commander,” Robert said sharply, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “These were our agents. Our comrades. And this is what they became?”

Krieg turned to him, his expression one of anguish and frustration. “Do you think I don’t know that, Robert? Do you think I wanted this?” His voice cracked, his emotions raw. “We made them into this. Abrar made them into this.”

Robert took a step closer, his tone cold and biting. “Then why are we here, Krieg? Why are we fighting a war built on the backs of our own people?”

Before Krieg could respond, Agent-90 stepped forward, his movements deliberate and calm. His voice, devoid of emotion but heavy with purpose, cut through the growing tension.

“This was always the SCP’s plan,” he said, his tone cold and precise. “They manipulate. They infiltrate. They corrupt from within. These agents... they were pawns, used and discarded to serve a larger purpose.”

Krieg turned to him, his frustration spilling over. “And you knew this? You knew, and you didn’t think to warn us?”

Agent-90’s icy gaze met Krieg’s, unflinching. “Warnings don’t stop what’s already in motion, Commander. You want someone to blame? Blame those who trusted the SCP. Blame those who thought alliances would protect them. Blame your own naivety.”

Far from the chaos of Obsidian Peak, in the sleek, oppressive halls of the SCP operative headquarters, Chief Ilse Richter sat before an array of monitors, her piercing gaze fixed on the encrypted feed from the Sentinel Helices. The devices, embedded in the wrists of the SSCBF’s enhanced agents and officers, had transmitted the events of the battle in chilling detail.

The screen replayed the scene of Haruka, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong’s defeat, their precision and planning undone by the sheer ferocity of their opponents. Richter’s gloved hand tightened around the edge of her desk, her knuckles whitening as she absorbed the implications.

The door behind her slid open, and Elan Mordecha, captain of the SCP secret police force, entered with his usual swagger. His sharp features were set in a mask of curiosity as he approached.

“You summoned me, Chief?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity.

Richter gestured to the screen. “Watch.”

Elan stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the footage. The failure of the SCP operatives was evident, as was the interference of the Sinner and the SSCBF team.

“Haruka, Liang Wei, and Mei Fong,” Richter said, her tone icy. “All three... failed.”

Elan exhaled sharply, his expression hardening. “Haruka’s dead, then?”

Richter nodded, her face devoid of sympathy. “And Mei Fong is compromised.”

Elan’s jaw tightened. “And her fate?”

Richter’s lips curved into a faint, sinister smile. “I will handle her. Leave that to me.”

Back at Obsidian Peak, Mei Fong knelt in the mud, her hands bound behind her back, her once-pristine attire torn and bloodied. Lieutenant Nightingale stood over her, her expression unreadable but her weapon trained.

“Tao-Ren,” Nightingale said firmly, nodding toward the jeep. “Get her loaded. We’re taking her back.”

As Tao-Ren moved to comply, Commander Krieg stepped forward, his face dark with apprehension. “If we take her,” he said sharply, “we’re inviting trouble. The SCP won’t let this go unanswered. The SSCBF won’t either.”

Nightingale’s brow furrowed. “And if we release her, Commander? What then? She just walks away?”

Krieg’s voice was heavy with resignation. “She’s not worth the blood that’ll be spilled because of her. Release her.”

As Tao-Ren hesitated, Mei Fong, sensing the moment of uncertainty, acted swiftly. From a hidden pocket, she released a smoke bomb, the small device hissing as it erupted in a plume of choking, dense fog.

Coughing, Tao-Ren cursed under her breath, stumbling back. “Damn it!” she shouted, drawing her weapon as she tried to track Mei Fong through the smoke.

The fugitive darted through the chaos, her movements swift and practised.

“Tao-Ren, stop,” Agent-90’s voice cut through the fog like steel slicing silk.

Tao-Ren spun toward him, her frustration evident. “She’s getting away!”

Agent-90’s eyes remained cold, calculating. “Let her go. She’s running because she’s already lost.”

Tao-Ren hesitated, her grip on her weapon tightening. “And what if she comes back?”

“She won’t,” Agent-90 replied, his tone flat. “Not after what she’s seen here. Let her run. The SCP is her punishment now.”

The rain had softened to a murmur, a pale drizzle that washed over the carnage left at Obsidian Peak. The battlefield lay quiet now, save for the laboured breathing of survivors and the occasional crackle of distant thunder. Standing amidst the wreckage, Garofano, cloaked in her signature crimson mantle, surveyed the scene with the detached gaze of one who had seen far too much bloodshed to flinch.

Her voice, low and sardonic, broke the heavy silence. “This wasn’t our fight, but I daresay it turned out rather interesting. For an ambush, you SSCBF lot didn’t embarrass yourselves completely.”

Commander Krieg, his armour dented and streaked with mud, stepped forward, his gaze level. “Interesting or not, Garofano, you and your squad saved our hides back there. That counts for something.”

Beside him, Captain Robert, still wiping the blood from his brow, gave a stiff nod of agreement. “We don’t often find allies in these situations. We owe you—and the Sinner—our gratitude.”

The Sinner squad—Blaze, Syntara, and Xira—stood nearby, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp, ever vigilant. Beside them, Agent-90, ever the silent spectre, remained unmoved, his expression cold as frost.

Robert turned to Agent-90, his gratitude sincere. “And you. If it weren’t for you, this would’ve gone far worse. Thank you.”

Agent-90’s icy blue eyes flicked toward Robert, his face a mask devoid of emotion. His response was as flat and unyielding as stone. “I don’t need thanks. This isn’t about gratitude. It’s about finishing what needs to be done.”

Blaze, leaning casually against a broken piece of machinery, let out a dry chuckle, his fiery aura still faintly visible in the mist. “He’s about as warm as the Arctic in January, isn’t he?”

Syntara, her golden eyes glowing faintly, smirked. “It’s almost impressive, really. You’d think he was carved from marble. Cold, unyielding, and incapable of cracking.”

Xira, her toxin-coated fingers idly tracing patterns in the mud, tilted her head, her voice soft but laced with venom. “Perhaps that’s why he survives. No heart to break, no soul to lose.”

Garofano’s lips curled into a faint smile, her sharp eyes flicking toward Agent-90. “The nameless monster, they call you. Fitting, I suppose.”

Agent-90 stepped forward, his movements deliberate and calm. From his coat, he withdrew a small envelope, its edges worn but its seal pristine. Without a word, he handed it to Garofano, his icy gaze meeting hers.

“Give this to Lady Sin,” he said, his voice as emotionless as ever.

Garofano raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. She took the envelope, her gloved fingers brushing against its surface as if weighing its significance. “What’s in it?” she asked, her tone teasing.

Agent-90’s response was curt. “Instructions. She’ll understand.”

Garofano studied him for a moment, then slipped the envelope into her coat. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” she said, her tone laced with amusement. She nodded to her squad. “Let’s move. We’ve lingered long enough.”

The Sinner squad departed with the fluid grace of predators retreating into the shadows. Garofano’s crimson cloak fluttered behind her like a streak of blood against the grey sky.

As the SSCBF officers regrouped, tending to their injured and securing the site, Agent-90 turned his attention to Ferro. The SCP operative lay unconscious in the mud, his face bloodied, his body battered. Without hesitation, Agent-90 grabbed him by the collar, dragging his limp form toward the edge of the battlefield.

Commander Krieg watched the scene unfold, his brows knitting in confusion. “What are you doing with him?”

Agent-90 didn’t stop, his movements mechanical and precise. “He’s coming with me.”

Robert, standing beside Krieg, placed a firm hand on the commander’s shoulder. “Let him handle it, Krieg,” Robert said, his tone low but resolute.

Krieg turned to Robert, his frustration evident. “Handle him? Ferro’s an SCP operative. He’s dangerous.”

Robert’s eyes were steady, his voice calm but firm. “And he’s no match for Agent-90. Whatever he’s planning, it’s better that Ferro’s out of our hands. Let it be.”

Krieg hesitated, then exhaled sharply, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “Fine. But if this comes back to bite us, I’m holding you responsible, Robert.”

As Agent-90 disappeared into the mist with Ferro in tow, the battlefield began to quiet once more. The SSCBF officers, though battered and weary, stood a little taller, their gratitude for the Sinner squad and Agent-90’s intervention etched into their faces.

Robert glanced at the horizon, where the faint glow of the departing Sinner squad lingered. “You don’t see allies like that every day,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Krieg, his jaw tight, nodded reluctantly. “No, you don’t. But something tells me this isn’t over.”

Nightingale, wiping blood from a cut on her temple, stepped forward, her gaze lingering on the direction Agent-90 had taken. “He’s not like the rest of us,” she said softly. “But maybe that’s what makes him necessary.”

The SCP Operative Headquarters was a cathedral of precision and terror, a place where whispers of rebellion were dissected and silenced with ruthless efficiency. The towering walls of the main corridor were cold steel, illuminated by faint strips of sterile white light. Every step echoed ominously, every shadow seemed to mock the faintest sign of weakness.

As Mei Fong stumbled through the towering entrance, her once-pristine uniform now torn and bloodied, the operatives stationed nearby turned to watch. Their faces contorted with disgust—brows furrowed, lips curled in sneers, and eyes narrowed with unspoken condemnation. Failure was a scent they could not abide, and Mei Fong reeked of it.

From the cluster of operatives, Shira Malachai, the venomous enforcer, stepped forward. Her tall frame cast a shadow over Mei Fong, her cold blue eyes seething with contempt. Without a word, Shira’s hand lashed out, her palm cracking against Mei’s face in a vicious slap. The sound echoed down the sterile corridor like a gunshot.

“You worthless waste of breath,” Shira hissed, her voice low but sharp as glass. She grabbed Mei’s hair with brutal force, dragging her down the hall. Mei whimpered but did not resist, her fear written plainly across her bruised face.

The interrogation chamber was a masterclass in psychological warfare, a nightmarish blend of cutting-edge technology and medieval cruelty. The walls were lined with panels that pulsed with an eerie, sickly green light. At its centre was a reinforced steel chair, its restraints glinting ominously under the glow of the room. Surrounding it were neuro-probing devices with sharp, needle-like appendages, psychotropic gas dispensers that hissed faintly, and holographic projectors designed to manifest the subject’s worst fears.

Shira threw Mei Fong into the chair with unceremonious brutality, her sneer unwavering as she locked the restraints around Mei’s wrists and ankles. The air was thick with the promise of pain.

The steel doors slid open with a low hiss, and Chief Ilse Richter stepped into the chamber. Her sharp features were a mask of cold calculation, her piercing eyes glinting with malice. She wore a tailored black uniform that seemed to absorb the light, a symbol of her dominion over the operatives under her command.

Richter approached Mei with measured steps, her steel baton tapping lightly against her palm. The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—a prelude to the violence that followed.

“You have the audacity to return here,” Richter said, her voice as cold and sharp as winter’s breath. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze piercing. “After your failure?”

Mei Fong, trembling, lowered her head. “Chief, I—I tried—”

Richter cut her off with a sudden, vicious strike from the baton, the steel connecting with Mei’s cheekbone. The sound of the impact was sickening, and Mei cried out, her head snapping to the side as blood trickled from a fresh gash.

“Tried?” Richter spat, her lips curling in a sneer. “There is no place for trying in this organisation. We do not forgive weakness, Mei Fong.”

Tears streamed down Mei’s bloodied face as she looked up at Richter, her voice trembling with desperation. “Chief, please... forgive me. I’ll make it right. I’ll prove myself—”

Richter struck her again, this time across the mouth, silencing her. Blood dripped from Mei’s split lip onto the cold steel floor.

“There is no proving yourself,” Richter said, her tone laced with venom. “There is only the consequence of failure. And you, Mei Fong, have failed spectacularly.”

Mei turned her gaze toward Captain Elan Mordecha, who stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed. Her voice cracked as she begged, “Captain... please, help me. You’ve known me—”

Elan’s expression twisted in disgust, his lip curling as he replied coldly, “I’ve known you as a liability. And now, you’re an embarrassment. Don’t drag me into your disgrace.”

Richter’s movements were slow, deliberate, as she pulled a sleek, black handgun from her holster. She stepped closer to Mei, pressing the barrel of the weapon against the centre of her forehead. The cold steel made Mei flinch, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.

“Failures like you,” Richter said softly, her voice almost a whisper, “are a rot that must be excised. No room for pity, no room for redemption.”

Mei’s sobs filled the room, her tears mixing with the blood on her face. Richter’s finger tightened on the trigger, and she leaned in close, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Goodbye, Mei Fong.”

The gunshot echoed like a thunderclap, deafening in the confined space. Mei’s head snapped back, blood spraying in an arc as the bullet tore through her skull. Her body slumped forward, lifeless, the restraints the only thing holding her upright.

Richter calmly reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. She wiped the blood splatter from her face and hands with meticulous precision, her expression unchanging. Dropping the stained tissue onto Mei’s lifeless body, she turned to Elan.

“Elan,” she said sharply, her tone as commanding as ever, “clean up this mess. And let this serve as a reminder to everyone. Failure is not tolerated. Loyalty is earned through results, not excuses.”

Elan nodded, his jaw tightening. “Understood, Chief.”

Richter paused at the doorway, her gaze lingering on Elan for a moment. “The next time I summon you, Captain, make sure it’s with better news.”

Without another word, she exited the chamber, her footsteps echoing ominously in her wake.

The tension at the SSCBF headquarters was palpable, thick enough to choke on. The grand hall buzzed with murmurs of confusion as the Field Operations Unit, led by Commander Krieg, returned from Obsidian Peak. Rainwater dripped from their gear, forming small puddles on the polished marble floor. Behind them, the limp bodies of Kyra Lang, Aymeric Moreau, and Elias Kovach were carried on stretchers, their lifeless faces covered with sheets.

At the far end of the hall, Chief Wen-Li stood by her desk, her sharp eyes immediately catching the heavy, angry stride of Commander Krieg. His fists were clenched, his face a mask of fury as he barked an order to the nearby officer.

“Get Dr. Abrar here now!” Krieg’s voice echoed like thunder, silencing the low hum of conversations.

Lan Qian, standing beside Wen-Li, exchanged a wary glance with Lieutenant Nightingale, whose face was still streaked with dirt from the mission.

“What on earth happened out there?” Lan Qian whispered, her tone trembling with a mix of curiosity and dread.

Wen-Li raised a hand to silence her. “We’re about to find out,” she said, her voice calm but laced with authority. Her sharp gaze cut through the room, taking in the frayed nerves and haunted expressions of her returning officers.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a hiss, and Dr. Abrar, his lab coat billowing slightly behind him, entered with quick, confused steps. His usually composed face was marred by a furrowed brow, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose.

As soon as Abrar stepped into the hall, Krieg stormed up to him, grabbing the lapels of his coat and shoving him backward. “You bloody lunatic!” Krieg bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. “What have you done? What did you make them into?”

Abrar stumbled, his hands shooting up in a defensive gesture. “Commander! What are you talking about?” His voice quivered, equal parts confusion and alarm.

“Don’t play coy!” Krieg snarled, his grip tightening. “They weren’t soldiers—they were monsters! Those weren’t enhancements, Abrar—they were abominations!”

Dr. Abrar’s mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. The accusation hung over him like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating.

“I swear to you,” Abrar said, his voice rising slightly as panic crept in, “I didn’t create anything like that! Whatever happened to them wasn’t my doing!”

But Krieg was relentless. “Don’t lie to me, Abrar! We saw what they became, what they did! You call that science?”

“Enough!” Wen-Li’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and commanding. She stepped forward, her presence immediately commanding attention. Her tone was calm but carried an undercurrent of steel.

“Krieg, release him. Now,” she ordered, her eyes locking with the commander’s in a silent battle of wills.

Reluctantly, Krieg let go of Abrar, his face still contorted with rage. Wen-Li turned her gaze to Abrar, her expression softening slightly. “Dr. Abrar,” she said, her tone firm but not accusatory, “you claim this wasn’t your doing. Then explain what happened at Obsidian Peak.”

Before Abrar could respond, Lieutenant Nightingale stepped forward. Her face was pale but resolute, her voice steady despite the weight of the words she carried.

“Chief,” she began, “at Obsidian Peak, the SCP operatives ambushed us. But it wasn’t just them. Our own enhanced agents—Kyra, Aymeric, Elias—they turned on us. Their eyes were bloodshot, their movements unnatural, almost mechanical. It was as if they were... controlled.”

Wen-Li’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Controlled how?”

Nightingale shook her head. “We don’t know. But it was deliberate. And it cost us dearly.”

The tense exchange was interrupted by the imposing figure of President Zhang Wei, who strode into the hall with an air of absolute authority. His dark suit was immaculate, his expression cold and calculating. The guards flanking him added to the weight of his presence.

Zhang Wei’s sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the battered officers, the stretchers bearing the enhanced agents, and the tense standoff between Krieg and Abrar.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Krieg turned to him, his face a mix of frustration and desperation. “Mr. President, Dr. Abrar is responsible for—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Zhang Wei interrupted, his tone icy. He gestured to the guards. “Take Dr. Abrar to the holding cells for interrogation.”

Abrar’s eyes widened in shock. “You can’t do this!” he protested, his voice rising in desperation. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Wen-Li stepped forward, her expression fierce. “President Zhang, this is premature! Abrar is one of us. He deserves a chance to explain himself!”

Beside Zhang Wei, Aarav Sharma, a lean man with an air of quiet menace, shook his head in disapproval. “Chief Wen-Li,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension, “this isn’t your call. The President has made his decision.”

As Wen-Li moved to protest, Aarav shoved her back slightly, his cold eyes locking with hers. “Step aside, Chief. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

The guards dragged a protesting Abrar out of the hall, and the tension slowly began to dissipate. The officers dispersed reluctantly, murmurs of uncertainty and distrust rippling through the ranks. Wen-Li stood motionless, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Abrar.

Later, in his private office, President Zhang Wei sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his expression unreadable as he picked up a secure phone. The room was dimly lit, the shadows adding an ominous edge to his already commanding presence.

The line connected, and a familiar voice greeted him—Gavriel, head of the SCP.

“The operatives failed,” Zhang Wei said bluntly. “Obsidian Peak was a disaster.”

On the other end, Gavriel’s voice was cold, calculated. “I expected better from Richter’s team. But setbacks are inevitable.”

Zhang Wei’s gaze darkened. “Setbacks are tolerable. Exposure is not. The SSCBF is questioning everything now. This can’t continue.”

In the background, another voice interjected—a deep, commanding tone that belonged to Netanyahu Hoffam. “Do not concern yourself with the SSCBF,” Netanyahu said, his words slow and deliberate, each syllable weighted with menace. “They are but pawns in a game they do not understand. Focus on the endgame, Zhang. The Fourteenth Society will not falter.”

Zhang Wei leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Understood, Boss.”

The rain pelted down on the SDF Hideout, its rhythmic tapping on the steel roof echoing through the cavernous interior. Inside, a group of weary yet ever-alert figures gathered near the central hub, the tension crackling like static in the air. Farhan, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, leaned against a console, chewing on the edge of his pen in thought. Jun, perched cross-legged on a desk, fiddled with his sidearm as though it were a puzzle, his expression one of idle curiosity. Roy, ever stoic, adjusted his spectacles with a slow, deliberate motion, his piercing gaze betraying a deep sense of contemplation. Masud, arms crossed, watched the rain through the thick glass of the observation window, while Alvi, seated at a terminal, tapped nervously at her keyboard.

Then the sound came—a heavy, deliberate metallic thud against the floor.

They turned in unison, their breaths hitching slightly as the towering figure of Agent-90 entered the hideout. The storm seemed to cling to him, droplets of rain cascading from his coat. Dragging behind him, slumped and unconscious, was Ferro, his body battered and his face bloodied.

The room erupted with noise, each voice vying for dominance in the growing cacophony.

“Is that Ferro?” Farhan exclaimed, pushing his glasses up his nose and leaning forward. “Blimey, 90, you don’t hold back, do you?”

Jun whistled low, his grin spreading wide. “That’s one hell of a delivery. Should we be asking for an address label next time?”

Roy’s gaze sharpened, his tone clipped. “This isn’t just some package, Jun. Ferro’s SCP. He’s dangerous, even like this.”

Masud turned, his voice low and steady. “And yet, he’s here, senseless and dragged like a sack of grain. Classic 90.”

Alvi, standing now, folded her arms and tilted her head, her sharp eyes flicking between Ferro and Agent-90. “What exactly are we supposed to do with him?”

Agent-90, ever emotionless, dropped Ferro with an unceremonious thud. His icy blue eyes swept over the group, cold and calculating. “That,” he said in his clipped, monotone voice, “is not my concern.”

In the corner, Hella, the younger Sinner, leaned forward, her lips parting in awe. “Whoa,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Is this the guy who’s been causing all the trouble?”

Beside her, Hecate, ever composed, raised an eyebrow. “Trouble, yes. But hardly impressive now.” Her tone was dry, but there was a glint of humour in her eyes.

Jun, hearing this, chimed in with a grin. “You’d be surprised, Hecate. Ferro’s like a poisonous snake—looks harmless when he’s still, but try poking him, and he’ll strike before you blink.”

Hella, emboldened by Jun’s words, leaned closer to Ferro’s unconscious form. “Think he’ll wake up if I poke him?”

“Please don’t,” Roy said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of someone already weary of future chaos.

From the upper platform, the sharp, commanding voice of Madam Di-Xian cut through the growing chatter. “Enough.”

The agents turned to face her, the humour in their expressions quickly giving way to professionalism. Madam Di-Xian descended the steps with her usual grace, her presence exuding authority. She glanced briefly at Ferro, her expression unreadable, before addressing the group.

“Prepare him for interrogation,” she said crisply. “But first, there is someone you need to meet.”

A faint ripple of confusion passed through the group as they exchanged glances. Madam Di-Xian raised a hand, gesturing toward the shadows near the entrance.

From the dimness emerged a figure perched atop a jagged rock formation, her silhouette sleek and deadly. As she stepped into the light, the agents took in her striking appearance—her raven-black hair, tightly braided against her scalp; her pale skin, faintly luminescent under the glow of the overhead lights; and her piercing grey eyes, sharp and unyielding as steel.

Her tactical outfit, sleek and form-fitting, seemed designed for agility, every line tailored to enhance her movements. Her presence was one of quiet menace, her gaze scanning the room with the precision of a hawk.

“Meet Elara Kennedy,” Madam Di-Xian said, her tone carrying an air of finality.

Elara’s grey eyes settled briefly on Agent-90, her lips curving into a faint, humourless smile. Emotionless and nameless. That’s what they called him, and now that she saw him up close, she understood why. He stood like a monument carved from ice, his gaze piercing and unrelenting.

Her attention shifted to the group of agents, each one unique in their reactions—Roy’s quiet, contemplative stance; Jun’s barely suppressed grin; Farhan’s sceptical tilt of the head. A motley crew, she thought, but there was potential here, raw and untamed.

“Wait,” Jun said, breaking the tension as he glanced at Elara. “Does this mean we’re supposed to impress her or something? Because if that’s the case, someone wake Ferro up and make him juggle.”

Farhan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jun, for the love of—”

“No, no,” Hella interjected, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think he’s onto something. We could tie Ferro to a chair and see how long it takes him to get out.”

“Or,” Roy said sharply, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “we could act like professionals and do our jobs.”

Hecate, her tone dry, added, “Pity. I was curious to see Jun’s idea play out.”

Through it all, Agent-90 remained silent, his icy gaze fixed on Ferro’s unconscious form. When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold and measured as ever.

“Amateurs,” he said simply, his tone carrying just enough weight to silence the room.